


Overrun

by hedera_helix



Series: Dresden [4]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Nazi Germany, M/M, Original Character(s), Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-17 08:33:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 41,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9313739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedera_helix/pseuds/hedera_helix
Summary: Side story to Dresden focussing on Farlan's youth in 1930s Berlin.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter two update on 27 January!

**March, 1934**

Farlan flips through the pages of the book, his heart burning in secret though Herr Rösler’s droning voice makes a valiant attempt to kill his excitement yet again, to crush the enormity of _feeling_ he draws from the words by forcing him to analyse, to chop the story up into motifs and themes, to fit it into a context. Farlan brushes the dark green linen cover of the book lovingly with his fingers, letting the teacher’s words fall away. There’s something about the book, something dark that strikes a dangerous note in him, essential but long-ignored. It’s not in the heat of battle but in what comes after, in the torment and anguish, in the grief of Achilles, in the way he tears at his clothes and smears his face with ash. It’s in those words he keeps returning to, the scribblings in the footnotes that made him learn a foreign alphabet – fatal, they make him shiver, they make him ache with something unspoken: φίλτατος ἑταῖρος, most beloved companion.

“Is Herr Kirche not paying attention again?”

At the mention of his name, Farlan lifts his gaze from the book reluctantly, glancing at the blackboard behind the teacher and quickly taking in the word “conflict”, written on top, with the rest of the space divided by a line: Achilles on one side, Agamemnon on the other.

“I have, sir,” Farlan fibs calmly, meeting Herr Rösler’s gaze without flinching.

“Would you care to answer the question?” the teacher asks, and Farlan clears his throat, summoning the words he half-heard Herr Rösler speak before.

“The conflict between Achilles and Agamemnon is about pride and power,” he announces with feigned confidence. “It’s about Agamemnon’s pride being hurt, because he’s a great king but Achilles rules the battlefield and has earned more admiration during the war.”

“So, you don’t think it has anything to do with Briseis?” Herr Rösler asks next, the pointer held in both hands behind his back as he paces slowly back and forth in front of the class.

Farlan shakes his head. “Why would it?” he asks back. “Agamemnon doesn’t love Briseis. He just wants to show Achilles that despite Achilles being a great hero, he can still take something from him and it hurts Achilles’ pride, because as half-god and the greatest fighter he feels he should be above Agamemnon’s rule.”

“And you don’t think Achilles would miss Briseis?”

“Why would he?” Farlan asks, his mouth running faster than his thoughts. “He already has Patroclus, his dearest comrade, and all the soldiers under his command. I don’t see why he’d miss some slave girl he never cared a fig about in the first place.”

When he hears the quiet sniggering from his classmates, Farlan can feel his ears turning red, but he keeps meeting the gaze of Herr Rösler, who seems to be ruminating over his answer. He keeps quiet for so long that Farlan has enough time to regret his answer, to examine it for what might be read into it. This moment of nervousness brings to his mind all the other things he was anxious about on his way to school: about handing in his additional assignment to Herr Rösler after class, about PE, about changing and showering with the rest of the boys afterwards.

“That’s an interesting point to raise,” Herr Rösler finally voices, scattering Farlan’s thoughts. “In a warrior culture like ancient Greece, or our culture today, can a man’s feelings for a wife or a girl-friend compete with the trust and comradeship that exists between men in the workforce or the army – between soldiers?”

Farlan frowns and wonders whether this really was the point he was trying to raise, but Ilse has already been given the chance to speak.

“I don’t see how the one is in any way comparable to the other,” she asserts. “One is a bond of friendship and the other is a bond of love between a husband and a wife. Those things have nothing to do with–”

“I can see why Achilles would like the company of his soldiers better than the company of a woman,” Jürgen suddenly cuts her off. “They’ve been through war, and a woman can’t know what that’s like. And they don’t nag him all the time, they just shut up and do as he tells them to.”

Some of Jürgen’s friends laugh, and Herr Rösler lets them. Farlan glances behind himself at the backrow of desks, suddenly relieved by how the teacher understood his answer. He looks over at Ilse as well and feels a sting of sympathy for how she was interrupted, but forgets it as soon as the teacher continues.

“That’s a good observation, Herr Denker,” Herr Rösler says, uttering a laugh, “though in a good marriage a wife will understand her place, just like a soldier in an army understands to listen to the command of his superiors. You have to also remember that we wouldn’t get far in this world without wives giving birth to healthy Aryan sons and daughters.”

“Better give us more sons than daughters, Ilse!” someone shouts from the backrow and the classroom explodes in laughter.

Farlan looks over at the girl again; she has blushed past the pimples on her forehead and all the way to the tips of her ears. Herr Rösler laughs along with his students, tapping at the floor with his pointer when he passes Ilse’s desk.

“You’re a good girl, aren’t you, Ilse?” he asks, smiling widely. “You’ll do your duty like the rest of us.”

Ilse doesn’t reply, simply stares at her desk with her lips pursed and she looks to Farlan like someone who wants to disappear. He once overheard her telling Beata how she visited Herr Fährmann and begged him to come back to teach them; rumour has it he was pushed to early retirement to make way for Herr Rösler who, as Farlan’s father put it, had all the right connections. Farlan misses the old man too, though his voice was always a bit wheezing and his obsession with Cicero neared a kind of madness. He was certainly better than Rösler, who once beat Rudi Lissauer seven times with his pointer for saying he’d fallen asleep while reading Mein Kampf.

“But don’t forget, boys,” Herr Rösler calls out, waving the long stick in a lazy circle, “it’s also up to us to show the womenfolk that we are strong German men worthy of their admiration and loyalty – and to keep them from being lured in by men of lesser races. Keeping German blood pure is up to all of us. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, Herr Rösler,” they all chant in a haphazard chorus, which Farlan only realises to join at the mention of the teacher’s name.

“And thank you to Herr Kirche for leading us to this subject,” Herr Rösler says, beaming at Farlan – such a difference from the suspicion and concern with which he used to look at him before.

“You’re welcome, sir,” Farlan mutters, turning his eyes back on the gilded letters on the cover of the book, but looking up again when Herr Rösler continues.

“And don’t forget to hand in your additional assignment after class,” the man tells him, touching his finger to the side of his nose.

The backrow chuckles again as Farlan nods without saying anything – as if he could have forgotten. As soon as he’s sure Herr Rösler isn’t looking, he turns back to the book and flips through the pages, looking anxiously for those strange letters in the footnotes.

When the bell finally rings they all jump to their feet, saluting Herr Rösler and shouting “Heil Hitler!” – it still embarrasses Farlan, the spectacle of it, and though his salute is strong his voice is barely more than a mumble. As the others start walking out of the class, Farlan grabs his leather satchel, clinging nervously to the strap as he walks toward the teacher’s desk but letting go before he reaches it; he doesn’t want Herr Rösler to think he’s scared. He pulls the essay out of his bag and hands it to the teacher, who starts eyeing the front page eagerly. The title is the neatest line: “Why I choose not to better myself and my country.”

“I think I finally understood it like you wanted me to, sir,” Farlan says, like he rehearsed before falling asleep the previous night, and for the time he lay awake before his alarm rang, and when he walked to school. “I’m almost certain I got it now.”

“Oh?” Herr Rösler replies, tearing his gaze off the essay to look up at Farlan. “Well, if that’s the case then I’m glad I’ve helped you on your way. But tell me, what do you think was different in this assignment compared to the earlier ones?”

“It just…” Farlan starts, biting his lip as he looks for the right words, the words he hopes Herr Rösler wants to hear. “It forced me to think about myself and my selfishness. It made me realise that there _is_ a lot more I can do for Germany, and that I can become a better per– a better man by working for my country. It really decided the matter for me.”

“And what matter is that?” Herr Rösler asks him, eyes again on the writing, brows furrowed as he reads.

“I’ve decided to join the Hitler Jugend, sir,” Farlan announces, trying to make his voice stronger by smiling. “It really is the best way for me to join the effort to make Germany great again.”

Herr Rösler’s expression seems to Farlan closer to a manic glee than a teacher’s joy for his student’s success; an unnaturally wide grin that forces odd half-moon wrinkles onto his cheeks.

“I’m very happy to hear that, Farlan,” he says, folding up the essay. “Very happy indeed.”

“Good,” Farlan says and nods, forcing his own smile wider. “And I wanted to thank you, sir, for helping me make the right decision.”

“It’s what I’m here for, Farlan,” Herr Rösler says, beaming down at him when he stands up from the chair behind his desk. “I don’t think there’ll be need for any more extra assignments, do you?”

“No, sir,” Farlan agrees, feeling a hint of relief. “I think I learned what you wanted to teach me.”

“In fact, you can have this back,” Herr Rösler seems to suddenly realise, handing his essay back to him; Farlan hesitates for a moment before accepting it. “It can be a reminder for you of the lesson you learned while writing it.”

“Alright,” Farlan mutters, his mind bristling when he thinks of the hours he put into writing the damned thing. “Thank you, sir.”

“It’s no problem, Farlan,” Herr Rösler tells him. “I look forward to seeing you at our meetings! Do you have your uniform yet?”

“Not yet,” Farlan says. “I’m telling my parents tonight. I’m sure they’ll buy it for me soon.”

“Good,” Herr Rösler says, snapping shut the clasps of his shoulder bag. “Well, as I said, I look forward to seeing you on Thursday.”

“I look forward to it too,” Farlan lies, already imagining it in his head, the misery, the exercise, the complete and utter waste of time.

They spend their whole Latin lesson learning passive verb forms while Jürgen and the rest of the backrow do their best to disrupt the lesson at every turn, throwing around crumpled up pages of their notebooks with nasty messages written inside; Farlan’s contains a messy drawing of him in the uniform of the Bund Deutscher Mädel. Herr Klebs – a wiry-thin man whose gestures and posture make Farlan nervous much in the way The Iliad does – makes a few efforts to silence them, but when Jürgen asks him again why he doesn’t have a portrait of Hitler in his classroom, he gives up and lets the racket continue. Farlan keeps glancing at the clock on the wall, growing more and more aware of its ticking the closer to its close the lesson draws. PE’s next, and he already knows what’s coming up: boxing again, and he takes a beating, just like last time and the time before that. It’s Ernst’s turn to land a good punch. It sends Farlan onto the floor, gritting his teeth against the tears while the gym hall erupts in a celebration of Ernst, and Herr Fleischhauer takes a moment to yell at Farlan for his lousy defence, for his skinny arms, and for not caring a fig about boxing to begin with like a real man should. Farlan escapes the changing room without showering, starting his walk home with his quiff hanging apathetically over his eyes, dirty and limp from sweat.

“You look terribly flushed,” his mother tells him when he gets home, pressing her palm against his forehead. “Do you feel a fever coming on?”

Farlan shakes his head. “It must be the exercise,” he replies evasively, trying to withdraw from the reach of her hands, but her hold on his chin doesn’t ease. He can tell the exact moment when she notices the bruise forming on his cheek from the quiet tutting sound she makes.

“What are they teaching you at that school of yours?” she asks in a whisper and Farlan shrugs.

“That boxing is an art – apparently,” he replies with a sigh. “I need to wash up.”

“Yes,” she agrees, tightening the strings of her apron, still frowning. “When you’re done you can help me in the kitchen. I’m making coq au vin if you’d like to learn the recipe.” 

Farlan nods and sighs again as he starts climbing up the stairs to his bedroom. He undresses quickly and gets in the shower, too exhausted to even pleasure himself though lately it’s been his habit. Once he’s dressed again in clean clothes he stops to look at himself in the mirror, eyeing the bruise that’s disrupting his otherwise blemish-free skin, as if by staring at it long enough he can make it mean what it should mean: that he needs to get stronger, that he needs to rid himself of all weakness, that he needs to become a real man, but he winces every time he touches it, and despairs every time he thinks of boxing, or of PE, or of the Jugend and can’t help that he finds it all so dreadfully dull. He walks back downstairs to help his mother with dinner, though nowadays it makes him feel guilty and ashamed, like it’s not the sort of thing he should enjoy. Still he’s smiling by the time they carry the salad to the table – pear, endive, Roquefort and walnuts, with a light vinaigrette for a dressing – and he doesn’t remember the throbbing of his cheek until his father gets home.

“Boxing again?” he asks, placing his suitcase down by the coat rack, patting Farlan on the shoulder after seeing his gloomy nod. “Try not to take it to heart. You’re the smartest one in your class and in the long run that will always mean more than how well you can swing your arms about.”

The words make Farlan smile and nod again as he recognises the truth in the words – his grades are far better than the other boys’, or at least they were before all this nonsense with the boxing and Herr Rösler started. The thought makes him remember his decision, that he’ll tell them tonight, and as they all sit down at the table, Farlan can feel his nervousness in the pit of his stomach. They fill their plates in silence and his father compliments the food before turning to him again.

“I hope you did something useful at school today,” he says, “and not just boxing.”

“We continued with The Iliad,” Farlan tells him, tasting too much honey in the dressing for his salad. “We had a discussion on the conflicts in it.”

“Worthy subject,” his father says approvingly. “And what did you think?”

“We talked about Achilles and Agamemnon,” Farlan goes on, “and I said I think the fight between them is about pride rather than about Briseis. Then we got into a stupid argument about who you should care about more, your wife or your fellow soldiers.”

“Why was it a stupid argument?”

Farlan takes a moment to empty his mouth. “Because it assumes that every one of us is going to get married and join the army,” he explains quickly. “I think it’s a stupid assumption.”

“So are you not going to get married?” his mother asks, and Farlan can see her casting an amused glance at his father as the words escape his mouth.

“I don’t think so.”

For a moment Farlan fears that he’s summoned the nameless dread which he found again today on the pages of The Iliad, in the description of Achilles’ φίλτατος ἑταῖρος, but when his parents share another look, it’s as amused as the first. They don’t see how the world has changed. They don’t understand what young people want, how much more free they are to shape their lives – or rather how much more free they used to be even a few years ago.

“Don’t you think we ought to speak with someone at the school, Eugen?” his mother asks, changing the subject and sounding worried. “It’s not right that he comes home every week with bruises on his face. I think we ought to-”

“Don’t!” Farlan hurries to interrupt her in a sudden fit of panic, feeling his breath falling short at the mere thought. “The teacher hates me enough already. If he thinks I’ve been complaining at home, he’ll punish me for it, I know he will.”

“It’s not right!” his mother counters angrily. “You’re supposed to receive an education at that school, not a weekly beating!”

“Do you really not want us to contact anyone?” Farlan’s father asks him calmly, sighing when he repeats what he said before. “I have to say that I agree with you, Helene, but I don’t think contacting the school will do much good. It’s the policies that need changing, not the teachers.”

“But there must be something we can do,” she argues, looking angrily at her husband as he chews on his salad pensively.

“All we can do is wait for this whole business to blow over,” he finally says. “There’s nothing to be done about who’s in power now. We just need to hope that people will be smarter about who they vote for next time.”

“But that could take years!” his mother points out. “Am I really just supposed to accept that my child will be forced to endure–”

“It’s not so bad,” Farlan lies quickly. “Really. And in any case, I’ll get used to it. Maybe I’ll even get better at it.”

“We could get you a tutor if you–”

“Please,” Farlan interrupts his father, his voice a little desperate. “I don’t want to spend any more of my time boxing than I have to.”

“I don’t think it’s the best use of your time either,” his father agrees, “and I’m glad you’re aware of that, Farlan. These new educational policies are abominable, absolutely abominable. All they’re doing is un-intellectualising our youth, filling their heads with this nonsense that… that physical strength and military prowess are somehow preferable qualities to reason and logic, and empathy. Don’t these people who advocate all this physical education and the Hitler Jugend understand that in ten years we’ll have a nation of dunces who only know right from left because they’ve been taught to march in different directions?”

Farlan half-agrees in a mumble, turning back to his salad. He’s heard all this many times, and before he always agreed whole-heartedly, but now all he can think of is that essay he wrote, the promise he made to Herr Rösler, and how there’s no way out of it. It’s hideous, having to make the choice of whom to disappoint, and he wishes there was someone who was _really_ forcing him, someone who could take the blame so he wouldn’t have to see the hurt on his father’s face directed at him. The man is still talking, going on and on about how the National Socialists are letting down Germany’s youth and Farlan knows he should let him finish, that he shouldn’t interrupt, but the words are boiling in his gut, they’re burning to get out, and he can’t help himself anymore.

“I’ve decided to join the Jugend.”

He doesn’t look up from his salad, but he can tell they’ve both turned to look at him. The sudden silence is full of emotions that Farlan doesn’t want to face.

“I’ve given it a lot of thought,” he starts, stopping to chew on his lip as he tries to remember how he planned to explain it without mentioning Herr Rösler and the essays; clearly his parents don’t need to be given any more reasons to contact the school. “Before you say anything, I’m not joining because I particularly want to. I just… I don’t want to feel excluded. Besides, I’ve heard it can help with your university application, and I need to start considering that.”

The quiet is broken only by a soft _clink_ when his father lays down his utensils on the edge of his plate. Farlan goes back to biting his lip after a hasty glance at his parents, whose expressions show just what he feared: disappointment and concern.

“This is your choice?” his father finally asks, surprising Farlan with the neutrality of his tone. “No one has pressured you into making it?”

“Not especially,” he replies, lifting his gaze to make his lie more convincing. “Like I said, I do feel left out, but that doesn’t make me feel pressured. I just… I think it would be useful. And if not, then at least I will have gotten some fresh air and exercise. That’s important too, isn’t it?”

“I’ve heard they plan their activities intentionally so that children miss attending church,” his mother tells him, sounding much sterner than his father did. “Are you not concerned about that? That you’ll miss coming to mass with us?”

“Of course I’m not _happy_ about it,” Farlan replies, “but I’d still prioritise the Jugend if it means I’ll get into a good university. Besides, I’ll only be in the Jugend for a little over a year anyway. I don’t see the harm in it since it’s such a short time.”

“And none of this means that you agree with them?” his father asks him, still as calmly as before. “That you agree with Hitler’s politics?”

“I…” Farlan starts, going in for a vehement ‘no’ that dies on his lips. “No, I don’t agree with his politics,” he says nonetheless, “and I’m not a National Socialist. I only think it will help me get to a good school, that’s all. And it will help me fit in at school. You know all the other boys in my class have already joined – all those who can, anyway.”

“Do they tease you about that?” his mother asks, and Farlan hurries to shake his head.

“No, they don’t tease me,” he lies again, “but I can’t join many of their conversations, and I feel left out.”

He watches his parents exchange another glance before his father turns back to his food, eating two mouthfuls in an utter silence that forces Farlan to sip nervously at his wine. He knows that his father is thinking; he often takes pauses like this to get his thoughts in order, and Farlan has learned to follow his expressions: this time it’s a frown, ever deepening, casting shadows over his eyes and multiplying the disappointment that was already too obvious to Farlan to begin with. It makes his heart sink, and makes the remnants of the wine taste like acid in his mouth. By the time his father speaks, his heart is racing fast enough to make his eyes blur.

“I’m not going to tell you not to do it,” the man says, fixing his gaze with a solemn stare. “It’s your time, and only you can decide what to do with it. At sixteen I believe you’re old enough to make that decision.”

And just like that, the matter is decided. Farlan glances at his mother, who has also picked up her utensils and resumed eating and knows she’ll not question his word or speak out against it. He takes another sip of his wine, wishing there was enough of it to get him even the least bit drunk, to let him forget that dread pressing on his chest.

“You’ll need money for the uniform.”

“Yes,” Farlan answers his father’s question, the word coming out as a whisper. “There’s a meeting on Thursday, I’ll ask about it then.”

His father nods without looking up from his plate and Farlan turns to his dinner as well, though he has lost his appetite. He eats as quickly as he can, escaping the heavy silence that stays unbroken until he asks to be excused. As he climbs up the stairs to his room, he can hear his parents talking quietly.

He sits down at his desk and sighs heavily, glances behind himself at the satchel by the door and lays his head down on the table, arms shielding it, turning the air warm and hard to breathe. He can hear, muffled and distorted, the sound of his father raising his voice and it makes him jump up and run to his books, bury himself in his homework until his mother knocks gently on his door, hours later, and he goes downstairs to have his supper and hot cocoa. She sits down beside him and strokes his hand.

“You father isn’t angry with you,” she whispers. “I hope you know that. He’s angry with how things are right now, that’s all.”

“I know,” Farlan says, though he doesn’t feel it.

“What’s most important is that you feel good about your decision,” she says, frowning a little. “Do you?”

Farlan takes a sip from his cup to prepare himself for the lie. “I do,” he tells her, drawing a hasty smile on his lips. “I know it’s not what I usually do, but I’m looking forward to trying something different.”

“Good,” she whispers, answering his smile but still looking concerned. “As long as you’re happy.”

He gives her another smile that he hopes is reassuring before she stands up and wishes him good night, giving him a kiss on top of his head and walking up the stairs. Farlan follows a few minutes later, carrying the cup of cocoa up to his room and sitting down at the desk again, knowing that dread will keep him awake if he goes to bed now. Instead he pulls out a notebook and picks up a pen, tries to think of an opening sentence for a new story, about a young woman who needs to make a difficult decision, to choose between her future and her family.

 _Her grandmother had always said_ , he writes, _that a girl was at her most beautiful on the seventeenth summer of her life, and it was at that age when she too blossomed into the full measure of her charm._

Farlan puts down his pen and looks at the sentence, leaning his cheeks onto the palms of his hands, summoning images into his head. She’ll meet someone, a man, not a prince but someone rather ordinary. Handsome though, very handsome, and they’ll fall in love though it’s forbidden. He’s very intelligent, and he makes her laugh, and whenever they stand very close to one another, she can feel her heart filling with longing.

He turns again to look at the nearly empty page, reads again the sentence he wrote down and sighs, pressing his forehead against the notebook. It’s no use. Distractions are futile. His life is nothing but useless movement from one nightmare to another, from school to Jugend to home, wherever he goes he is stuck facing an endless cycle of disappointment, always too much this or not enough that, never good enough, never even halfway there. In a fit of anger he closes the page into his fist, crumples it up and throws it in the rubbish bin. There’s nothing left in the world to write about, it’s all been said a thousand times before, and trying to think of anything new is an utter waste of time.

He lies down on his bed sullenly, draws the covers over his head, pretends his laboured breathing is caused by the stuffiness of the air under it and not the lead-heavy fear in his chest.

 

**September, 1934**

In the awfulness of the heat and the crowd and the commotion, Farlan takes every opportunity to read. Whenever he’s safe from the eyes of others, whenever he feels everyone is focusing on something else, he seeks the comfort he finds on the pages, in the words he’s all but memorised by now. It gives him a few minutes here and there away from the anguish, from the ever-present, sickening nervousness that has kept him in its grip ever since they left Berlin. He has tried to disappear ever since, first to the back of the bus, then by getting lost in the crowd of Jugend uniforms. It’s been easier than he thought: the rest of the boys in his Kameradschaft and Schar are busy making friends, amused and fired up by the friendly competition – like this, a 100-meter run. They’ve been racing amongst themselves for months and it’s all been for this: after a score of preliminaries and semi-finals, they’ve found the three best runners from each Schar who now stand ready to fight for the title, the best of their Gefolgschaft, a place in the race for the fastest in the Unterbann. Farlan glances up from his book, counts eight boys on the track, hands on their hips as they squint in the sun, as if they’re waiting for something. The sight of their bare legs and arms leaves his mouth dry and he turns quickly back to the text, not lifting his gaze until a sudden eruption of shouts and cheers startles him back to the real world. A group of boys has stood up in the stands, all glowing red cheeks and waving arms, all looking down at someone on the track and cheering.

The hair is what he notices first: brown, short and wavy, a few strands falling over his gracefully sloping forehead. Farlan watches as the boy pushes his fingers through it, mesmerised by the movement, his eyes following the hand that comes down to scratch at an itch no doubt caused by a drop of sweat running down his neck. The heat has reddened his cheeks too, and the tip of his nose, has perhaps drawn lighter shades into that hair that shines almost bronze when Farlan looks at it again. He allows his eyes lower, to the sweat-stained white undershirt, to the black shorts that leave the boy’s thighs and calves bare, expose the signs of hard training. Farlan swallows with effort, bringing his gaze back up to the boy’s face, turning hurriedly to his book when he meets his eyes, sees the frown on his face, fears he has stared too long and revealed too much.

He doesn’t look up again until he hears the start gun go off, having barely enough time to find the boy before he speeds past the others to win the race, and the group of his comrades in the stands explodes in shouts and laughter. Farlan tries to look away but can’t help following the boy with his eyes as he walks back to the starting point, chest heaving, hands pulling up the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his brow. A man meets him halfway – his group leader, no doubt – to pat him on the back and to say something in his ear over the roar of his friends, something that makes the boy nod and smile lazily. He runs a hand through his hair again before jogging slowly over to a bench by the stands, stopping to drink, his eyes scanning the audience and finding Farlan, making him flinch and draw his head between his shoulders, though the earlier frown has now turned into a smile, a little playful and somewhat amused.

Farlan pretends to read his book again, stealing glances at the boy when he hops up the rows of benches to join the celebration in his honour that has already started, and for the first time in his life Farlan thinks it may not be an empty achievement, winning something like this. After all, he’s the fastest of some 150 boys, he might go on to be the fastest of 600. Maybe in four years Farlan will see him in the Olympics, winning a gold medal for Germany. Surely there’s some skill in that, some accomplishment that simply hasn’t occurred to him before. When the group leader calls the boys down from the stands and they take their leave, Farlan feels as though someone has drawn all the blood out of his heart.

They practise the marching in preparation for the following day, and from the mass of uniforms Farlan’s eyes search and search for a glimpse of that bronze hair, so hard that he grows oblivious to the blisters on his feet and to the sun burning the skin of his neck. His yearning to see the boy is wild; it scares him, makes him grit his teeth against a nervous surge of bile in his throat. They’re singing, the words pour out of his mouth, automatic, full of false emotion and therefore no emotion at all. The only genuine movement on his features is made by his eyes as they pass over faces, shoulders, necks, the backs of heads. Farlan doesn’t find him. Disappointment mixes with relief in the pit of his stomach and makes him lose his appetite.

He finds a quiet spot by the stadium, in the shade of the now empty stands, and opens the book. He’s approaching the best part again, the immeasurable grief of the hero. It’s tangible, like the book in his hands, the emotion, the _feeling_ , that nameless something that invades his world, that he’s felt himself, that he felt today when–

“What are you reading?”

Farlan looks up, sees the bronze of his hair, deepened by the glow of the afternoon sun. A polite smile. A half-raised eyebrow. A new question already on his lips.

“Can I sit down?”

At the sound of his voice, so pleasant, so tempting, Farlan has grown mute. He shifts on the dusty ground, lets the boy take a seat next to him, doesn’t know what to do with the book so he simply lets it fall open on his lap. He meets the boy’s eyes, startles at the shades of green and brown, and the freckles on his nose.

“I’m Christofer,” the boy says, extending his hand, which Farlan takes after a moment’s hesitation. “What’s your name?”

“Farlan,” he replies, hurrying to clear his throat when the name escapes as a wheezing croak. “I’m Farlan.”

“So what are you reading?” Christofer asks him again, nodding toward the book. “It’s not a secret, is it?”

“No, it’s…” Farlan starts, uttering a quiet laugh, all the while trying to catch his breath, to pull his gaze off the boy’s lips. “It’s The Iliad. I’ve read it before but I–”

“What’s it about?”

The question takes Farlan by surprise and he frowns. “Have you not read it?” he asks, and Christofer shakes his head.

“I think we’re reading it at school this year,” he says, and for a moment Farlan’s mind fights with the fact that the boy must be a year younger than him; looking at the two of them, you wouldn’t think it. “So what’s it about?”

“War,” Farlan replies. “Mostly, anyway.”

“Oh, good,” he says with a sigh, leaning onto the side of the stands. “I was afraid it was going to be boring.”

“It’s not boring at all!” Farlan exclaims. “It’s my favourite. It’s really interesting.”

“I saw you reading it,” the boy tells him, narrowing his eyes a little, “when I was prepping for my run.”

Farlan falls speechless for a moment of confusion, pulling his brows to a frown. “You saw–”

“But you did watch the race in the end,” Christofer interrupts him; the squinted eyes make his smile look a little malevolent. “Didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Farlan admits, blushing, embarrassed. “You did really well.”

“Why would you bring a book to a race?” the boy asks him now, turning to look up at the sky. “If you’re not interested, why not just read somewhere else?”

“I was hoping…” Farlan starts, pausing to reflect, to reconsider, to think of a lie, but when Christofer turns to him, his face full of simple curiosity, Farlan utters a quiet laugh and says, “I was hoping I could disappear.”

“Oh,” the boy voices, looking ever more confused. “Do you wish you weren’t here then?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Farlan fibs at once, knowing better than to tell anyone how much he still hates it. “I just… Don’t mind not being noticed.”

The boy turns to look at him, frowning and smiling, like he’s some kind of an amusing riddle he can’t quite solve. “That’s the strangest thing I’ve ever heard anyone say,” he finally declares. “I thought everyone wants to be noticed, to be the best.”

Farlan turns away, eyes scanning the sparse grass at their feet sourly. “Well, I don’t care much about all that,” he says, feeling a sudden bristling anger in his chest, “and I don’t care a fig about it being strange.”

“Well don’t get upset,” Christofer counters, sounding nearly as hurt as Farlan feels. “I just meant I haven’t heard anyone say that before, that’s all. It’s just… curious, is what I meant. I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I promise.”

Farlan glances up from his feet, surprised by the sincerity in the other boy’s expression. It brings down his defences, makes him regret his anger to the point where he mutters a quiet apology, at which Christofer merely laughs.

“You don’t need to apologise either,” he tells Farlan and grins. “Are you always so serious?”

Farlan scoffs quietly. “I’m afraid so,” he says, looking up when someone calls out Christofer’s name; his friends from before.

“Well, I guess I have to go,” the boy says, pushing to his feet before turning back to Farlan again. “You’re from West Berlin, aren’t you?”

Farlan glances at the badge on his uniform and nods. The smile he sees above him makes him shiver.

“I might be moving there soon,” Christofer tells him, already taking a few steps backwards. “Maybe I’ll see you if I do.”

“Maybe,” Farlan agrees, following the boy with his eyes as he runs to his friends.

They fill the stadium the following day, rows upon rows of uniforms, the marching band playing their best as they all sweat in the heat. This time Farlan finds him, some four rows ahead and to the left, and when everyone else is craning their necks to see the Führer, Farlan’s eyes are glued to the back of Christofer’s head. He doesn’t hear a word of the speeches, barely realises to raise his voice to the chorus of “Heil!” swelling up all around him. Watching him, the blush on his cheeks, the fire in his gaze, the sun in his hair, Farlan’s heart fills with longing – fills with terror.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 update on 10 February.

**October, 1934**

Farlan first sees him on a Wednesday, walking out of a classroom, laughing and talking to a few other boys. He’s wearing his Jugend uniform, his hair is neatly parted, more brown than bronze in the morning light that shines through the windows in slanted rays. The smile on his face makes Farlan’s breath hitch in his throat and he hides in an empty classroom, leaning onto the door and waiting until he’s sure the boy has disappeared. He catches another glimpse of him later that day; they both finish their lessons at the same time, and Farlan sees him leaving through the large gate. They use the same route to get home up until Herr Klopp’s bakery, where the boy turns left and Farlan continues straight ahead. He knows this because he follows the boy, walking a good fifty metres behind him until he disappears from view.

At home Farlan can hardly focus on anything, feels nauseous at the thought of reading The Iliad and seeing those words that have grown too meaningful for comfort. He struggles through his homework, eats his dinner reluctantly, barely hears the conversation his parents are having: something about Ernst Röhm again, and about how many people have been forcibly sterilised since the new law was passed. He asks to be excused as soon as he’s finished and retreats to his room, throwing himself down on his bed and pulling a pillow on top of his head in an attempt to feel like he doesn’t exist, to make himself stop thinking about the things he’s too scared to name.

The horrifying thought doesn’t occur to him until he’s changing into his uniform: the boy has started at their school, he lives somewhere nearby, which means he’ll be at their Jugend meeting, that he must have changed over to their Schar, if not their Kameradschaft. He was already feeling sick from the nerves that were frayed from the events of the day and this new realisation makes his hands shake so badly he barely manages to button up his shirt. He stares at himself in the mirror, grits his teeth at the sight of his bony legs sticking out of the black shorts, feels like someone’s strangling him every time he remembers the streaks of copper in the boy’s hair.

In the end he pretends a headache and stays in bed for the rest of the evening, putting up with his mother fussing over his health, letting her bring his supper up to his room. At night he can’t sleep; his hands are busy under the covers, filling his head with thoughts that by morning have made him shudder and feel sick to his stomach. He refuses breakfast, refuses his mother’s suggestion that he should go with her to see a doctor and tells her he only needs to rest for a day. His father gives his permission and he climbs back upstairs, crawling between the sheets and letting himself breathe for the peace he has managed to buy for himself. He falls asleep for another few hours, feeling ten seconds of panic upon waking up when he realises how much of his precious time he’s already spent.

Farlan sneaks downstairs, calling out for his mother but finding only a note from her on the dining room table: she’s gone out to visit a friend. He eats a sandwich with a glass of milk, wandering around the empty house all the while, though he knows his mother doesn’t like people eating anywhere except at the table. He peers out onto the street through a gap in the curtains before drawing back, taking a moment to enjoy the feeling of being invisible, of knowing should someone come knocking on the door he could pretend that he’s not at home. He flips through the pile of sheet music his mother has laid out on top of the piano, admiring the look of them though he was never able to translate the lines and dots into something his hands could read.

It’s at that moment that he thinks of it, so suddenly he needs to tighten his hold on the glass of milk not to drop it. He frowns and bites his lip, running the dishes into the sink before walking through the quiet rooms again, stopping at the door to his father’s study. He cracks it open and glances inside, at the mess on top of the desk, at the small reading lamp, at the tall bookshelves filled with heavy leather binds. He hesitates for a moment, his heart beating wildly, feeling like a child out of bounds when he finally steps inside.

The silence feels heavy, pulling a book out of its place among the others feels like a form of sacrilege. Still Farlan does it, lays the tome open on the desk, careful not to disturb any of the papers underneath. He goes through the pages quickly at first, realising to take greater care when he notices the little notes his father has placed between them – little corrections or reminders on various entries, somehow necessary for his work at the university, though Farlan doesn’t know how.

He finds the entry he’s been looking for, holds his breath while he reads it, his finger tracing the lines. It tells him nothing he didn’t already know and leaves a deep frown on his face. So they are unnatural as well as sinful, the feelings he has, the things he imagines in the dead of night. He thinks of the boy again, thinks of Christofer: his sun-kissed hair, the green of his eyes, the strength and beauty of his body, the curving muscles of his legs and thighs. He reads the words on the page again and shudders, wonders if there’s a cure, something to make him normal, something to make his heart keep steady when he sees the boy. It seems so unfair that he should have been born with such a defect when without it all the doors in the world would be open for him.

Just as he’s about to close the book and put it back on the shelf, something catches his eye: another note his father has left. Farlan recognises the untidy handwriting, narrows his eyes as he tries to read the words, finally making out the message.

_Reg. sodomy: see work of Hirschfeld, Radszuweit, Freud, Hiller, etc._

Farlan looks through the rest of the volumes of the encyclopaedia, searching for the names his father has written down, but finds none of them. He goes quickly over the spines of the books in the shelf but the names don’t appear there either, and he gives up, sneaking out of the study as soon as he’s made sure he’s not left behind a sign of his passing presence.

He spends the rest of his day reading _Around the World in 80 Days_ to lift his spirits, growing nervous again only when his mother brings him his dinner. The worry on her face makes him feel guilty, and he has to tell her he’s feeling better; taking the lie any further would get too complicated. He tosses and turns through the night again, sleeping in restless intervals until morning, feeling that nausea in the pit of his stomach as he’s getting dressed and as he walks to school, barely able to keep down his breakfast when he steps in through the gate, head bent so as not to see the boy should he happen to be there.

Farlan gives Herr Rösler the note his mother wrote before he left – an explanation of his absence – but when the man sees her signature, he passes the paper back and demands a note signed by his father instead. Farlan wishes he could ask why it matters who signed the damned thing, but instead he meekly promises to bring a new note the following day and takes his usual seat, staring out the window at the leaves being pulled off their branches by the autumn wind.

Done for the day, Farlan has already managed a sigh of relief when it happens: he spots the boy by the wrought-iron gates of the school, talking with Rudi Lissauer and some of the boys in Farlan’s class. He stops in his tracks as he’s crossing the yard, looks around himself as if a second exit is going to magically appear. He stays in the shadow of the building for five minutes, trying to wait him out, but it’s no use. When he finally walks past the gate, Farlan keeps his eyes on the ground, pulls his scarf closer to his nose and tries to slip past them all unnoticed.

“Hey! You there!”

Farlan glances back as he hears the shout but doesn’t stop, even picks up his pace when he hears the boy saying hasty goodbyes to the others and running after him.

“I thought it was you,” he says, peering at Farlan’s face and frowning. “Do you remember me? We met at the rally in Nuremberg.”

“Yes. Hello,” Farlan mutters, lowering his scarf only a little as he looks at the boy: his heart feels as though it will stop from the sight.

“Why do you keep hiding behind that scarf?” the boy asks next. “Do you not want to talk to me?”

“No, it’s not that,” Farlan hurries to say, lowering the scarf further still. “I’ve not been feeling well. I couldn’t even come to school yesterday.”

“Oh,” the boy voices, frowning. “Sorry to hear that.”

They fall quiet for a moment during which Farlan tries to calm his breathing and avoids looking at the boy, until he moves in front of him, walking backwards and forcing Farlan to meet his gaze.

“I bet you don’t even remember my name,” he says. “I remember yours, though. It’s Farlan. I remember because it’s such a strange name.”

“I do remember yours,” Farlan argues, his annoyance turning into embarrassment when he sees the amused challenge on the boy’s face.

“Well what is it then?”

“Christofer,” Farlan speaks, shivering. “See? I told you I remember.”

Christofer moves to walk beside him again, and Farlan can’t tell if the smile on his face is more smug or pleased.

“Isn’t it such a coincidence,” he asks Farlan, “that we go to the same school now?”

Farlan agrees in a mumble, not sure whether he’s happy about it or not. The thought of seeing Christofer every day is nearly as painful as the thought of never seeing him again.

“Hey,” Christofer suddenly says; it takes Farlan a few seconds to realise he has stopped walking. “Do you not like me?”

“No, I do!” Farlan hurries to assure him, just because it feels rude to say anything else. “I mean, I don’t really know you that well, but… I don’t _dis_ like you, or anything of the sort.”

“Oh,” Christofer says and starts walking again. “Well, you could’ve fooled me, the way you’re acting.”

“How am I acting?” Farlan demands, though he’s fully aware of what it is that the boy means.

“I don’t know,” Christofer says. “You hide behind your scarf, you don’t even look at me, and it doesn’t seem to me like you want to talk.”

“I told you,” Farlan counters. “I’m not well. I missed school yesterday.”

“Right,” the boy replies, like suddenly remembering. “You did say that.”

“Why does it matter so much,” Farlan starts, feeling his heart beating wildly, “if I like you or not?”

Christofer shrugs. “I guess I just want you to,” he says, adding nothing to the explanation, and Farlan is too afraid to ask another thing about it.

They part ways at Herr Klopp’s bakery and Farlan continues home by himself, feeling a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth despite the fear lodged in the pit of his stomach.

They meet nearly every day after that, and slowly Farlan’s heart begins to get used to the sight of Christofer until it no longer threatens to burst at every half-smile the boy grants him. They practise boxing together after school in the garden behind Farlan’s home; he’s no match for Christofer, who seems like he was born to fight, but even a few afternoons of this build Farlan’s courage to the point where he’s brave enough to punch Ernst square in the jaw during their PE lesson. While for anyone else the deed would have earned praise, what Farlan gets from the rest of the boys in his class is resentment. After the lesson they drag him under a freezing cold shower and force him to stay there for as long as it takes them to sing _Vorwärts! Vorwärts!_ They stretch out the last notes for as long as they can.

“They’re just joking around,” Christofer says when Farlan tells him about it later. “It’s just a bit of hazing. They’re trying to see if you’re strong enough.”

“Strong enough for what?” Farlan asks sullenly, pushing the wet droopy quiff off his face.

“Strong enough to be one of them,” Christofer explains cheerfully. “So you mustn’t complain, and they can’t ever see you cry. If you do, you’ve lost the game.”

Farlan wants to shout at the boy, to tell him it’s not a stupid game, that it’s his entire life, it’s his future education, it’s everything he will do in his life after that, but instead he says nothing. He knows the other boys can sense it, they can feel that he’s different and that’s why they’ll never accept him. Still, he practises with Christofer nearly every afternoon, keeping his mind on his PE grade, and on the few surprise-laced compliments he’s gotten from Herr Fleischhauer. In return he helps Christofer with the Morse code; they spend hours sending secret messages to each other through his bedroom door. Farlan tries to keep his as close as possible to the examples they’ve used in the Jugend, knocking out things such as “the enemy approaches from the northeast” and “there are no more bullets”. He tries to ignore many of Christofer’s messages, tries not to read anything into them – “Do you ever get hard in class?” “Have you touched yourself today?”

Sometimes they just lie on Farlan’s bed, listening to music having dragged the record player up the stairs. They talk about things, take turns reading The Iliad out loud; it sounds even better to Farlan when the words are spoken by Christofer, in his low and pleasant voice. Softly, like waves caressing a distant shore. Loud, like the autumn storms outside his window. They decide Christofer is Achilles – strong and fast, the greatest soldier who ever lived – whereas Farlan is Patroclus – his most beloved friend. The words grow into a comfort the like of which Farlan has never known in his life: a new courage, a shield around him and the rest of the world. He is the most beloved – Christofer’s most beloved.

One day in early November they pass each other in the hallway, and instead of stopping to talk to him, Christofer walks straight past him without giving him so much as a glance. Farlan brushes it off, tells himself Christofer must have been busy, but feels instantly the fear from before settling somewhere under his ribs. When he’s about to leave, he finds a note in the pocket of his coat, a folded up page of a notebook with the words “Klopp’s bakery after school”. When Farlan arrives, he finds Christofer waiting for him, biting into a spritzkuchen.

“You got my note,” he calls out when Farlan is still ten metres away. “I was afraid you’d miss it.”

Farlan crosses the remaining distance, feeling the frown on his face growing deeper. “What’s all this about?”

Christofer shrugs. “I thought it would be fun,” he says, offering Farlan the pastry in his hand. “Want a bite?”

Farlan looks at Christofer, at the easy smile on his lips and doesn’t waste a second wondering what this is about; they’ve gotten to him, the other boys, they’ve started asking Christofer why he spends his time with Farlan, they’ve made it clear they think it’s strange. Farlan keeps quiet for a long time, thinking, silently examining the mess of feelings inside him: the embarrassment, the anger, the immeasurable sadness. But what stands out over everything, weighs so heavily it can’t be ignored, is the fear. Afraid of being alone again, of not having Christofer close to him, if never as close as he’d like, Farlan accepts the pastry and takes a bite, starting to walk toward home. Christofer follows him quickly.

“You can have the rest of it if you want,” he says, nodding at the spritzkuchen.

Farlan shoves the remaining pastry into his mouth, still fighting to push all his hurt to the back of his mind. When he doesn’t look up at Christofer, the boy cuts in front of him, walking backwards to keep his eyes on Farlan.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, sounding genuinely confused, and Farlan shudders when he realises how good a liar he is. “I thought you’d think it’s fun.”

Farlan laughs – the most pathetic laugh he’s ever heard – and mutters, “Sure. It’s fun.”

“We don’t have to do it anymore if–”

“No,” Farlan hurries to say, though his heart is so heavy and aching it nearly chokes him. “You’re right. It is fun.”

At this Christofer springs aside again, walking beside Farlan and asking, “What do you want to do today? Boxing?”

Farlan shakes his head. “I don’t feel like boxing today,” he mutters, catching Christofer’s shrug from the corner of his eye.

“We can do whatever you like,” he replies just as cheerfully as before.

They lie on Farlan’s bed, Christofer at the foot and Farlan at the head. They listen to Beethoven, though Christofer thinks it’s boring. They hardly speak. Farlan stares at the ceiling, thinks of the note that’s still neatly folded in the pocket of his coat – thinks of the other note between the pages of the encyclopaedia. Suddenly it seems wrong to blame Christofer for not wanting anyone to know they spend time together. How could you blame a person for not wanting to be tainted by that?

“D’you know what?” Christofer suddenly says, getting up on his side and leaning on his elbow. “We should go on a trip!”

“What?” Farlan asks, trying to catch up with the other boy’s train of thought, but failing.

“To Greece!” Christofer continues excitedly. “And Turkey! Didn’t you say you’ve always wanted to see the ruins of Troy? To visit Athens? To sail past Ithaca?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Think about it!” Christofer sits up and grabs a tight hold of Farlan’s leg. “We could save all our money and go, just the two of us!”

Farlan sits up as well, frowning. “How on earth do you think we could get that much money together?” he asks the other boy, whose enthusiasm doesn’t waver.

“So maybe it’ll take us a while, but what of it?” Christofer argues, jumping out of bed and fetching Farlan’s geography book from his desk. He goes through the pages until he finds a map of Europe. “See?” he says, pointing out the distance. “We could take a train to Athens– Or we could take a train to Italy and sail to Greece!”

Farlan looks down at the map and then up at Christofer again. “Are you serious about this?” he asks, scoffing at the boy’s enthusiastic nod.

“Come on, why not?” Christofer argues, his eyes bright. “Just imagine: speeding through Europe on a train, sending postcards to your parents from Rome, spending a night or two in a tiny fishing village on the Greek coast.”

Farlan can’t help it, his mouth curves into a smile. They could stay in cheap accommodation, like starving artists. He could write notes and use them in his stories. They could spend all that time alone together, far from anyone who knows them, far from all of this.

“We’ll need an awful lot of money,” he still says, hesitating. “I can save up my allowance but what about you?”

“Father’s been telling me to find work for the summer,” Christofer replies. “I could save up whatever money I earn then!”

Farlan turns to look at the map, at the edges of the countries, at the Mediterranean at the bottom of the page. Slowly he begins to get excited.

“Well we can’t plan anything on this,” he says, closing the geography book and running downstairs, fetching another book from his father’s study and laying it open on the page showing the railway lines of Europe. “Even this won’t tell us anything about the current rates they charge on trains. We’ll need to go by the railway station and ask someone.”

“How much do you think it costs to stay a night in Rome?” Christofer asks, lying down on his stomach and pulling the book closer as Farlan follows his example. “We could probably save money by staying somewhere further from–”

“But I still want to see everything there as well,” Farlan interrupts him. “I want to see the forum, and St. Peter’s Basilica and–”

Christofer laughs. “I keep forgetting that you’re Catholic,” he says, flinching when Farlan elbows him in the ribs. “But even if we don’t stay close to any of that, we can walk. Come on, we’re in the Jugend, we can march for twenty kilometres without breaking a sweat, can’t we?”

“Why don’t you just walk to Rome then?” Farlan asks him sourly, growing alarmed when he sees the glint of excitement in Christofer’s eyes. “No! We are _not_ walking to Greece!”

“Fine, have it your way,” Christofer mutters, grinning as he adds, “You’re such a spoiled brat, you know.”

“Oh, so now I’m a spoiled brat because I don’t want to walk halfway across the world–”

“It’s not halfway across the world,” Christofer argues. “Just… halfway across Europe.”

Farlan gives him a long look before turning back to the map. “We’re taking the train,” he decides, and Christofer submits with a sigh.

From then on they meet every day at Herr Klopp’s bakery, taking turns buying a little pastry they can share on their way to Farlan’s house. After a while Farlan gets used to it all: to the little notes he finds in his coat pocket, to the way Christofer avoids looking at him during school days and Jugend meetings. They spend an hour or two nearly every afternoon planning their trip or boxing, moving the practise to the upstairs hallway once the weather starts to grow colder. At night when he lies awake, thinking about the torment he’ll face the following day, thinking about those words in the encyclopaedia, Farlan grows more and more grateful for every minute Christofer spends with him.

One Saturday morning some three weeks before Christmas Farlan is out helping his mother with the shopping when he suddenly spots Christofer, standing across the street with Jürgen and Ernst and Rudi, and a few other boys whose names Farlan doesn’t know. Their eyes meet quickly before Farlan’s mother draws his attention.

“I almost forgot the yeast for the cake,” she says, handing over her shopping basket. “Here, darling, hold this while I go get it.”

Farlan places the basket on the crook of his elbow, taking a moment to admire the wreath they picked up from the Christmas market. When he looks back over at Christofer, he finds him laughing with the rest of the boys, staring in his direction; Jürgen even has his arm stretched out, pointing at Farlan, doubled over with laughter. Farlan can feel his neck and cheeks becoming warm, he grows breathless from the sudden embarrassment and anger and confusion. He glances behind himself, trying to find something, anything the boys could be laughing at other than him, but when he turns around again they only seem to be laughing louder.

Farlan walks away from their line of sight, hiding behind a shelf full of condensed milk where his mother finds him. By the time they leave the bakery, Christofer and the boys have disappeared, to Farlan’s relief. The incident stays on his mind for the rest of the day, growing into fear and suspicion over what Christofer may have told the others. He goes frantically over all his memories, all the moments they’ve spent together, to find something he might have said, a look that lingered too long, a smile that grew too caring. He begins to doubt everything, every kind word Christofer has spoken to him, every plan they’ve made together, even questions the moment they first met. Did someone urge him to come and talk to him as the start of some elaborate joke? Had it all been a lie from the start? Had Christofer been telling everyone those things Farlan has only ever told him? The thoughts make him feel so sick that he can’t even finish his slice of cake before going to bed.

The following morning Farlan makes it to his Hitler Jugend meeting even with the overwhelming fear raising bile to his throat. He doesn’t have to wait long to get his answers, Jürgen and the others notice him as soon as he steps into the large gym hall. Sniggering, they walk over to him; Christofer is nowhere to be seen.

“What are you doing here, _Hausfrau_?” Jürgen asks, shoving Farlan hard enough to make him back against the wall.

“What did you just–” Farlan starts, but Rudi cuts him short.

“Shouldn’t you be at home baking and sewing?” the boy says, grinning maliciously. “The Jugend is for boys and men, not for little _Hausfraus_ like you.”

“I don’t understand what you–” Farlan starts again, feeling a flutter of panic in his chest when Ernst interrupts him.

“We all saw you yesterday,” he explains, “with your pretty little wreath in your pretty little basket. What were you out buying? A new dress?”

Only then does it dawn on Farlan, and in his mind he sees himself as the others must have seen him before: in the bakery, holding a basket, admiring the things he had bought. Like a woman. Like a wife.

“Those were…” he says, his mouth dry and his voice barely a whisper. “Those were my mother’s–”

“Are you a mummy’s boy, Hausfrau?” Jürgen asks him, his tone mocking, his eyes bright and narrowed. “Do you want to run home to your mummy?”

Farlan only manages to shake his head, and Rudi laughs.

“I wouldn’t mind running to your mummy, Hausfrau,” he says. “I saw her. She looks like someone I could give it to, and hard.”

The boys laugh, and Farlan feels a surge of anger the like of which he’s never felt before. He pushes himself off the wall and takes a step forward.

“Don’t you dare say something like that about–”

Suddenly Jürgen grabs a hold of the collar of Farlan’s uniform shirt, raises his fist and brings it so close to Farlan’s face that he can’t help but raise his hands to shield himself.

“What are you going to do about it?” Jürgen growls while the other boys laugh. “It’s about time you learned your place. _Hausfrau._ ”

They walk away, still joking to themselves as they leave Farlan to his spot by the wall. He can feel all the bad feelings rising into his eyes: the anger, the hurt, the utter betrayal and shame. He spends the meeting hiding in the backrow, looking over the tops of heads until he finds Christofer, cursing the day they met, biting his lip to keep himself from crying. As soon as they’re done chanting “Heil Hitler”, Farlan runs out of the building, only pulling on his coat and gloves when he’s halfway down the road. He fears hearing footsteps behind him, running after him, denies the part of himself that still feels joy at the sound when it echoes out, when he hears Christofer calling out his name.

“Didn’t you hear me?” the boy huffs, slowing down from the run when he reaches Farlan. “I must have shouted ten times.”

Farlan doesn’t look up from the street, doesn’t acknowledge Christofer’s words or his presence. It’s all he can do to keep thinking of his home, of the darkness of his room where he’ll finally be able to show it: that terrible weakness in him.

“What’s the matter?” Christofer asks him, cutting in front of him and trying to peer under the hood of his coat. “Have you gone mute over the weekend? Why won’t you talk to me?”

Farlan walks past him without so much as glancing up from the tips of his shoes. He can hear from the way his footsteps fall that he’s growing angrier by the second.

“Hello?! Can you see me?!” Christofer snaps, waving his hand in front of Farlan’s face. “Why are you acting like this? You’re acting like a–”

“Like a Hausfrau?”

The words stop Christofer dead in his tracks while Farlan keeps walking. He can hear the boy’s incredulous scoff behind himself.

“Is that what this is about?” Christofer asks him like the mere thought is somehow ludicrous. “You’re angry because of _that_? It’s just a joke!”

Farlan grits his teeth to keep from speaking, to keep himself from telling Christofer that to him it’s not a joke, that none of this is fun or a game, that the other boys don’t think it’s a joke either, that they think it’s funny because they think it’s true.

“Honestly, you should see yourself,” Christofer tells him, still sounding like he can hardly believe how upset Farlan is. “Why do you have to take everything so seriously? Why can’t you ever just laugh at yourself?”

“Do they call you that then?” Farlan can’t help snapping, meeting Christofer’s confused expression. “Do they call you Hausfrau?”

Christofer lets out a quiet laugh. “Of course not,” he says, “because I’m not–”

“Because you’re not what?” Farlan interrupts him, knowing himself he’s done so to keep from hearing the end of the sentence. “You’re not someone they draw pictures of wearing girls’ clothes? Because you’re not the one who gets beaten up at boxing? Because you’re not–”

Realising what he’s been about to say, Farlan falls quiet, staring defiantly at Christofer whose brows have knitted above his eyes – out of anger or confusion, Farlan doesn’t care.

“Do you think it’s funny?”

Christofer looks back at him, surprised, like Farlan has slapped him in the face. “I don’t know why–” he starts, but Farlan cuts him short.

“Was it you?” he asks now, seeing the answer in Christofer’s expression at once – in the guilt, the embarrassment. It breaks him, shatters him: that wordless confirmation. “Was it you who thought of that name?”

“Farlan–”

“From now on, stay as far away from me as you can,” Farlan tells him: a whisper, as hollow as his heart. “I swear, if you run after me now, I will kill you, Christofer. I will kill you.”

He doesn’t follow. For the first time, he doesn’t.

The next day when Farlan finds another note in his coat pocket – multiple sheets of paper, he didn’t think Christofer knew that many words – he rips it up at once and throws it in the rubbish bin without reading a single line of it. When he sees Christofer waiting for him by Herr Klopp’s bakery, he doesn’t give the boy a single glance, doesn’t acknowledge his presence, doesn’t look up when Christofer asks him if he read the letter he wrote to him.

“You can’t seriously still be angry about it!” the boy calls after him when he doesn’t slow down. “If you don’t want to be my friend anymore, that’s fine by me!”

At home Farlan drowns his sadness in a sea of anger, destroying every piece of Christofer he can find: their plans for the trip, the maps, the routes, the calculations for the costs. He drags the record player back to the sitting room by himself and hides all of Christofer’s favourite records in a cupboard. When he remembers he loaned his copy of The Iliad to the boy, Farlan throws his alarm clock across the room, alerting his mother with the loud, rattling bang.

“It’s nothing,” he lies to her when she asks him what’s wrong. “I just dropped it, that’s all.”

Farlan spends the week nursing that anger, watching Christofer talking and laughing with the other boys at school, at their Jugend meetings. He imagines all the horrible things they’re saying about him, convinces himself that Christofer was never his friend to begin with, that he’s been making fun of him behind his back the whole time. Whenever he walks by Herr Klopp’s bakery he speeds up his steps. Whenever he thinks of The Iliad he pinches his arm hard enough to make himself gasp.

The following Saturday they take a day-trip outside the city: a day of “fun and educational activities”, as Herr Rösler puts it. Farlan hates the very idea of it, shivers in the cold and tries to catch a breath of cool air from his asthma while the other boys run around across fields like idiots. They gather into a large circle and split into two teams for a game of Trackers and Indians. Farlan accepts his red armband grudgingly, standing still until everyone else has run off before walking to the opposite direction, knowing someone will find him soon enough, knowing he’s never been strong enough to keep anyone from taking his armband. He tries to enjoy the moments of quiet in the forest, grits his teeth against the numbing of his feet and fingers as he waits for one of the boys to jump out from behind a bush or a tree to scare him. Always ready to give up without putting up a fight – until he hears someone whispering his name behind him.

“I told you to leave me alone, Christofer,” Farlan tells the boy, glancing behind himself and speeding up his steps. He can hear the boy running after him.

“Will you stop being so stubborn?” Christofer hisses, grabbing a hold of his arm and spinning him around. “Here.”

Farlan looks at the tattered blue armband Christofer is offering him and grits his teeth. “I don’t need your fucking pity,” he hisses and turns on his heels, barely managing a single step before Christofer has clutched his arm again and shoved the armband against his chest.

Farlan scrunches it up in his hands and throws it at the boy’s face, walking past him back toward the field, biting his teeth together so hard his jaw starts to ache. When he feels Christofer’s hold on his shoulder, he turns around fist first, landing a punch that leaves a trail of blood running down toward Christofer’s mouth. He feels the same shock he sees on the boy’s face, but his anger is stronger, moving into his hands, pushing and shoving.

“I told you,” Farlan snaps, forcing Christofer to take another step back. “I don’t want your pity. And I don’t want your help.”

The last push sends Christofer on his back on the damp earth. Farlan stares at him for a few seconds before turning away, ignoring the sound of the boy struggling onto his feet until he feels him grabbing a hold of him again. Farlan turns around and throws his weight against Christofer. They fall down, clutching and hitting at each other wherever they can reach, and soon Farlan can’t tell the difference between the parts of his body that are hurting. He grows out of breath, hears voices calling out somewhere in the distance but all that matters is Christofer’s body under his fists, his grunts of pain, the feeling of hard bones against his own flesh. He feels someone wrapping their arms around his waist and pulling him off Christofer, throwing him to the ground and kicking him; the hurt radiates through him, nestles in his chest, stops his breathing. When he hears his own wheezing exhale somewhere beyond the noise, Farlan suddenly understands: it’s not the pain in his body that’s keeping him from breathing. It’s his lungs and throat that feel like they’re on fire.

By the time Herr Rösler runs over and pulls the boys off him, Farlan is lying defencelessly on the ground, arms shielding his head as he gasps for air. He rolls onto his back as soon as he can, rubbing weakly at the pain in his chest, staring up at the boughs arching above his head against the pale grey sky. He can feel the tears running down from the corners of his eyes; they tickle when they reach his ears. He sees two people kneeling down beside him – Herr Rösler and Christofer.

“Five against one,” Farlan can hear Herr Rösler muttering. “That’s un-German, boys. It’s cowardly, and un-German.”

Farlan spends the remainder of the day resting in the bus while the other boys march and play, drinking hot tea from Herr Rösler’s thermos. Christofer’s there too, holding a handkerchief over his bleeding nose with his head tilted back against the seat. They don’t speak, but keep looking at each other, always turning away just in time not to meet each other’s eyes.

Once back at the school from where they started that morning, Herr Rösler calls Farlan’s father, who comes to pick him up ten minutes later. Farlan overhears Christofer arguing with Herr Rösler, insisting he will walk home, but when Farlan gets into the car he can still see the boy sitting on the steps, like he’s waiting for something; he doesn’t get up until the car has passed through the gate.

“I hope you know I am very disappointed in you, Farlan,” his father tells him sternly. “You know we do not tolerate violence – certainly not under these circumstances. Frankly I think this sort of behaviour is beneath you.”

Farlan doesn’t speak, merely stares at his lap all the way home. His mother has prepared the electric nebulizer and Farlan spends a good five minutes breathing in the epinephrine even though his breathing is already much better. He lets her fuss over him and the cuts and bruises on his face, lets her bring him hot cocoa and sandwiches while his father lectures him on the importance of patience and rational thinking. When he crawls to bed after his bath, Farlan tosses and turns in search of a part of his body to lie on that doesn’t ache even on the soft mattress.

He’s not surprised to see Christofer on their doorstep the following day, holding his copy of The Iliad, only revealing the black eye Farlan gave him when he looks up hesitantly from the tips of his shoes.

“I thought you might like to have this back,” he says, holding out the book. “In case you want to read it during the holidays.”

Farlan reaches out and accepts it, turning it in his hands, surveying the other boy’s face, only now noticing the cut on his lip. He mutters a quick “thank you”, considers slamming the door in Christofer’s face but can’t bring himself to do it.

“Shouldn’t have taught you boxing,” Christofer says and laughs, pointing at his nose. “It’s not broken, but it’s not far off either.”

Farlan scoffs quietly. “It’s a wonder I ever learned anything,” he mutters.

“Even though you had the best teacher?” Christofer jokes, answering Farlan’s unimpressed stare with half a grin that dies as his expression grows serious. “Are you alright?”

Farlan shrugs. “I’ve been better,” he says, sighing heavily, “but I’m not dying, if that’s what you came here for.”

“No, I was…” Christofer starts, stopping to bite his lip and draw a deep breath. “I was hoping we could talk. There were some things I wanted to say – I actually wrote it all down in the letter, but I guess you didn’t read it, so…”

Farlan looks at the other boy, searches for the anger that was still all he could feel just a handful of hours ago but which now seems to have burned away, leaving only empty spaces in its wake. He thinks of why they drifted apart, all those memories he fought so hard to eradicate, feels a sting of regret as he steps aside to let Christofer in.

“So, about that letter,” the boy starts as soon as they’re up in Farlan’s room. “Well, it was basically an apology for the whole thing. I didn’t realise you wouldn’t find it funny.”

Farlan watches as Christofer breaks under his stare and lets out a heavy sigh.

“I guess I just didn’t remember that you…” he starts again, ending with a shrug. “I don’t know. I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

The question takes Christofer by surprise; Farlan can see it in the way he turns to look at him, confused.

“Why did I want to apologise?” he asks, shrugging when Farlan nods. “I don’t know. I guess I felt bad for hurting your feelings.”

“Why?” Farlan asks again, watching the frustration creep onto Christofer’s features as he shrugs again.

“I don’t know,” he starts again. “Because you were my friend – and when someone’s your friend you’re not supposed to hurt their feelings.”

“Why?”

“Why aren’t you supposed to hurt–”

“No,” Farlan interrupts Christofer sharply. “Why was I your friend?”

Christofer stares at Farlan, frowning, eyes narrowed, like the question doesn’t make any sense to him. “Why were you my–”

“I mean, you don’t like people like me,” Farlan interrupts him again. “You don’t like people who are weak like me. You don’t like people who read too much and listen to Beethoven and do boring things like that. So why was I your friend?”

Farlan can see Christofer gritting his teeth, catches the change in his jaw and the stiff shrug he gives as a reply.

“You don’t want people to know we’re friends,” Farlan continues, “because it’s embarrassing to you. You want to spend time with me, but not too much. You know it yourself, we have nothing in common, so why do you–”

“I don’t know!”

Farlan takes a step back, flinching as Christofer raises his voice.

“I don’t know why!” he shouts, looking somehow tormented, like the question has been haunting him for months. “You’re right, we have nothing in common, you don’t like any of the things I do and I don’t like the things you do! So I don’t know why I want to be your friend, I just know that I want to spend time with you, I want to _be_ with you, I just–”

Farlan watches as Christofer turns away from him, head held in his hands, and suddenly he’s more real to him than he’s ever been before, somehow broken, like something that was holding him together had suddenly disappeared. Breathless with yearning, Farlan has already taken a step forward before he thinks to stop himself.

“Well,” the boy finally mutters after long seconds of silence, turning to the door, “I came here to apologise, and I apologised, so I guess I should–”

“Christofer, wait.”

Farlan loves and hates the look the boy gives him, wants to crush that hope for his own sake and restore it for his – hates and loves himself for giving up so easily, for getting Christofer back, for letting himself down.

“I…” he starts, searching for words that are just enough, never too much, not even now. “I do forgive you. I know…” Another pause, the words burn his mouth. “I know why you avoid me when the others are around. I don’t blame you for that. It’s because I’m…”

He looks up at the frown on Christofer’s face, his heart is bursting from the secret – so close, on the tip of his tongue, if he could trust him, if he could trust anyone…

“Well, I’m not like the rest of you,” he finishes and laughs, “and you don’t want them to turn on you. I mean, you’re new here. It’s important you make friends, right?”

“Right,” Christofer agrees in a whisper, still frowning when Farlan continues.

“So I guess…” he says, gritting his teeth for a second before he manages to speak it. “I guess it doesn’t matter so much. And I guess… we can still be friends. If you want to.”

Christofer’s smile is the sun, his relief is Farlan’s whole world. He’s never longed for him more, never wanted to lose himself more, never wanted anything more than a new hour in his presence.

“On one condition,” Farlan says; he has to say it, no matter what happens. “You have to promise.”

“Anything,” Christofer agrees so readily he sets Farlan’s heart on fire.

“You’ll never call me Hausfrau,” Farlan says, feeling the last of his anger in his shallow breathing. “Not ever.”

Without wasting a second, Christofer whispers, “Never.”


	3. Chapter 3

**January, 1935**

One day during the last days of their holiday, Farlan’s mother stops Christofer as he’s about to leave for home and tells him to deliver an invitation to his parents for a dinner party on an evening that suits them. It catches Farlan’s interest. He’s asked Christofer a few times in the past why they never spend their afternoons at his home, to which Christofer has replied, “Because I have five sisters, and they’re a menace, and they’d never give us a moment of peace”. Even now, Farlan has never met a single member of Christofer’s family.

“I’ll be sure to give them the message,” Christofer promises, but it takes him several weeks to remember – though Farlan wonders whether he’s lying, and whether he’d just rather not have their families meet, for whatever reason.

When their parents finally agree on the date, Farlan begins to piece together what little information Christofer has let slip about them. His sisters – all younger than him – are loud and troublesome. His mother – whom he barely mentions – is the very image of the perfect Aryan wife and mother. His father he talks of the most, and always with a tone of absolute admiration and respect. On the day of the dinner Farlan grows nervous though he makes the hours go by quickly by helping his mother in the kitchen – even baking the entirety of the dessert himself.

When they finally arrive – at exactly the hour agreed upon earlier – Farlan fears his blush will seem out of place, seeing Christofer dressed in a suit, looking smart, his hair shining bronze as if slicked into place with pomade. Neither of his parents have that reddish hair – she’s blonde while he’s dark, with striking brows much like Christofer’s. They all seem to be dressed in their best, even the four girls who are wearing fur muffs as they step in from the cold. They all shrug quickly out of their coats, their parents shake hands and each of the little girls does a little curtsy that makes Farlan’s mother’s eyes sparkle as she laughs.

“Oh, but aren’t you all just so precious?” she asks them and makes them giggle as they hide behind their mother.

“Clearly they’re being a little shy,” Frau Hahn says and laughs. “Come on, girls. Remember what we talked about.”

“Good evening, Frau Kirche,” the oldest of them – she looks about twelve – says, taking one of her sisters by the hand and pulling her further from their mother too.

“Good evening,” Farlan’s mother replies, her smile widening. “And what is your name?”

“Frieda,” she tells her. “And these are Liesel, Gisela and Hilda.”

“What beautiful names you all have!” Farlan’s mother exclaims with enthusiasm that makes Farlan and Christofer share a look and turn away quickly to hide their laughter. “I’m ever so pleased to meet you!”

All the girls mutter some variety of “yes, you too” while their mother watches on, nodding curtly at their response.

“I thought you said you have five sisters,” Farlan whispers to Christofer who groans.

“We left Magda at home with my grandmother,” he whispers back. “Mum said she’s too young.”

Farlan looks again at Christofer’s sisters and then at his parents; they look far too young to have so many children, much younger than Farlan’s own parents. He watches as Christofer’s father speaks with his own, raising his already booming voice when he spots Farlan across the room.

“You must be the new friend Christofer has been speaking about for months!” he bellows, crossing the room to shake Farlan’s hand – his grip is so tight it nearly makes Farlan flinch. “Good of you to befriend our Christofer. You met in the Jugend, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Farlan manages, swallowing with effort, his heart hammering. “At the rally in Nuremberg.”

“I have to admit, I quite envy you boys for getting to be a part of that!” Herr Hahn says. “It must have been something!”

“Yes, sir,” Farlan says again, noticing suddenly the NSDAP pin on the lapel of his jacket. “It was quite something.”

“A drink, Georg?” Farlan’s father suddenly asks from the doorway and the man turns, walking back over to him.

“You look like a man who knows his liquor,” Farlan can hear Christofer’s father say. “I guess one won’t do any harm.”

They all gather into the sitting room, the little girls all sit down on one sofa in a neat row; they look like dolls in their frilly dresses. Christofer pulls Farlan into a corner from where they observe their parents as they make polite conversation.

“I don’t think this is going to end well,” Christofer whispers to Farlan, making him frown.

“Why do you say that?”

Christofer shrugs. “Just a feeling,” he mutters, making a face at one of his sisters as she looks their way.

Farlan keeps his eyes on their parents, trying to see what Christofer sees, but failing. Frau Hahn is complimenting his mother on the upholstery while her husband is complimenting the cognac. None of them is showing signs of anything but a still slightly formal politeness, the kind Farlan has observed when he’s spied on his parents entertaining in the past, especially if the guest was a new colleague of his father’s.

“I hope the food will be good at least,” Christofer says to Farlan quietly. “I’m starving.”

“Mother made onion soup for entrée and a leg of lamb for main,” Farlan tells him, “and I baked a Gugelhupf.”

Christofer laughs. “I’m not going to say it,” he whispers, “but you know I’m thinking it.”

Farlan gives him a light poke between the ribs with his elbow. “Don’t forget that you–”

“I know, I promised,” Christofer interrupts him, grinning, “but I can still think it.”

Farlan narrows his eyes for a moment, but decides to let the matter go, turning instead to straighten the hem of his jacket, brushing a bit of lint off his trousers. He glances at Christofer’s, admiring the fabric and the fit, and the shine of his shoes. He grabs a hold of the boy’s arm and lifts it up to examine his cufflinks: gilded, but still very smart, with a huntsman motif in the centre.

“Good enough for you?” Christofer asks, pulling on his shirt sleeve when Farlan lets go of his arm.

“Yes,” Farlan replies and, feeling quite grown-up, continues, “Much better than that ghastly Jugend uniform you always wear.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the uniform,” Christofer counters, “and it’s not ghastly.”

“Yes, it is,” Farlan argues. “I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it outside the meetings.”

“Everyone thinks it’s strange that you don’t.”

“I don’t care a fig what they think,” Farlan announces. “I’d rather be fashionable and disliked than adored for wearing something hideous.”

Christofer sighs, but doesn’t argue. “I can’t wait to get out of this thing,” he says instead, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. “I don’t understand why we had to put up this spectacle just to visit your parents.”

“It’s polite to look your best when dining with someone,” Farlan tells him, watching as his mother goes over all the fabrics for the girls’ dresses with Frau Hahn. “I think you look very smart, for what it’s worth.”

Farlan doesn’t turn to look at the other boy, but he can hear him scoff; somehow he manages to sound almost smug.

“I think you think I’m handsome,” he says in the quietest whisper of the evening.

Farlan can feel his cheeks growing flushed. “I didn’t say that,” he argues. “I just said you look smart in the suit.”

“I still think you think I’m handsome,” Christofer tells him, amused.

“But I didn’t–”

“And I think you’re handsome too.”

Farlan’s arms tingle with sudden shivers as he turns to look at Christofer who doesn’t meet his eye. He’s saved from having to think of something to say when his mother calls for him from across the room to please come and help her in the kitchen.

“Are you alright, darling?” she asks him as soon as they’ve entered the hallway again. “You look very flushed.”

“It must just be warm,” Farlan replies, pressing the back of his hand quickly against his cheeks before he starts slicing the bread.

They carry everything to the table before calling the rest of them in. Frau Hahn guides her daughters to their seats as if they were frantic little ducklings, and Farlan can see the delight on his mother’s face when they finally sit down, arranged from the tallest to the shortest save for the youngest one who’s been seated next to her mother. Farlan’s seat is next to his father’s, who sits at the end of the table, and Christofer’s – and opposite Herr Hahn’s. The thought of being asked more questions by the man makes Farlan’s hands shake as he places the napkin onto his lap.

“Everything looks absolutely wonderful, Helene,” Farlan can hear Frau Hahn exclaiming from the other end of the table. “Did you prepare this all yourself?”

“Thank you, you’re so kind,” his mother replies and smiles. “And yes, I did indeed do all the cooking. I hope you don’t mind this arrangement. We haven’t had help in years.”

“But you had help in the past?” Frau Hahn asks, frowning.

“Oh, we did have someone when Farlan was younger, but you know, times got so hard that we simply had to let her go,” Farlan’s mother explains. “Some of my friends were more fortunate, and others have begun hiring again, but truthfully I find I no longer need the help now that Farlan is older.”

“Surely you don’t need help with just the one child!” Frau Hahn exclaims. “And as you said, especially not one as old as yours!”

“I’ve always thought domestic servants are a frivolous expense,” Herr Hahn chimes in. “Pardon my saying so, but it’s a woman’s duty to take care of the house and children, is it not? If you hire someone else to do the job, what’s your wife going to spend her days doing?”

Farlan can see his parents exchanging a look before his father says, “I would think the answer would be quite obvious.” He pauses to fill his glass, and Farlan’s; Herr Hahn refuses the offer. “I don’t think it right to task my wife with nothing but repetitive domestic work while I myself am free to pursue my interests. To me it’s a matter of personal pride to be able to provide my wife with an environment in which she can also pursue hers, be they artistic or intellectual or philanthropic.”

They all fall quiet, the only sound in the room is the soft clinking of spoons against bowls as Christofer and his sisters eat their soup. Farlan keeps glancing up from his meal, catching the tightening of Herr Hahn’s jaw.

“Well, to each their own, as they say,” he finally says. “Personally I think there’s no better pursuit for a woman than to be a wife and a mother.”

“Surely your wife also has a say in that?” Farlan’s mother asks, frowning as Frau Hahn speaks up.

“Oh, I agree with my husband absolutely,” she says fervently. “There’s nothing that brings me more joy than doing my duty for my country as a wife and mother. I don’t think anything else would give me such purpose.”

“Well, you’ve still got your hands full,” Farlan’s mother tells her, touching her arm in passing. “You might feel differently once your children are older and there’s less to do regarding their care.”

“Of course it must be very different, having just the one,” Frau Hahn agrees. “I must admit I was very surprised to hear it!”

“How so?”

“Well Catholics often have large families, do you not?” she asks. “And in any case, having only one child is rather unusual, no matter who you are!”

Farlan turns his eyes back on his soup and shudders at the tense silence.

“Yes, well,” he hears his mother start. “It’s not that we didn’t wish for more children. It’s just that…”

“That there are still things modern medicine cannot fix,” his father jumps in to finish.

Farlan glances up to see the utter horror on Frau Hahn’s face. “Oh, how foolish of me to bring up–”

“Please, do not blame yourself,” Farlan’s father protests. “How could you have known? And as far as being Catholic goes, it’s an understatement to say we’re not very devout.”

“You’re not?” Christofer whispers to Farlan, who shakes his head as Herr Hahn speaks up.

“Well there’s something I can agree with you on,” he says. “The new world needs men of science. I gathered from your line of work that you are one?”

“I’d like to think so,” Farlan’s father says.

“And what is the field you work on?”

“Pedagogy and educational sciences,” he replies. “Though it seems lately my work has been increasingly directed toward something else entirely.”

“Yes,” Herr Hahn says, and to Farlan he sounds sly. “I couldn’t help noticing you’re not a party member.”

“That’s right, I’m not.”

“Well, far be it from me to try and convince you.” Herr Hahn lets out a loud, throaty laugh. “I’m sure you hear enough of it at the university. Am I right?”

“Yes,” Farlan’s father says, and the strain in his voice makes Farlan take a hasty sip of his wine. “I do indeed. I believe I’ve heard enough of that for a lifetime.”

“There’s always one good way to shut them up,” Herr Hahn says, laughing again, “but I’m sure it’s crossed your mind.”

“Yes, I must admit, I have considered relocating to another country.”

Farlan looks up and next to him Christofer does the same. “What?” he asks, hearing the fear in his own voice.

“Many of my colleagues have already left,” his father says. “If the atmosphere in Germany turns to increasingly favour the meddling of politicians into the work of scientists and academics, I’m afraid I’ll have no other choice but to follow them.”

“I can see you’re an idealist, Eugen,” Herr Hahn responds coolly. “You can’t expect the German people to fund whatever research the academics feel like conducting. Not all research is needed, and some of it is downright harmful.”

“And what sort of research do you yourself consider harmful?”

Herr Hahn looks around the table for a moment. “I wouldn’t like to say – with wives and children present,” he finally voices, “but I’m sure you know what I speak of. It’s a damned good thing we put an end to that business as soon as we got the chance.”

“To put you at ease I can promise you that my own research caused me to cross paths with the institute only very briefly,” Farlan’s father says, “but I’m curious to know. In the field of educational science, what sort of research do you find is needed?”

Herr Hahn shifts in his seat and clears his throat, looking uncomfortable. “You know I’m not an expert,” he argues but Farlan’s father lays down his spoon and steeples his hands under his chin.

“You don’t need to be an expert to tell me about your own educational philosophies,” he says, smiling. “What do _you_ think of these new policies?”

“Well,” Herr Hahn starts, “you’re not going to like hearing this, but I happen to believe they are spot on.”

“Do you indeed?”

“Yes,” Herr Hahn confirms. “In my opinion they’re the most likely thing to accomplish what we want to see happen in Germany.”

“And what is that?”

“We want to see our sons grow up strong and proud, strong enough to defend our country against all this foreign influence that wants to destroy us,” Herr Hahn replies, his eyes growing bright. “We want our men to be the best the world has to offer, pure of mind and body, and able to withstand pain and fight off our enemies when the need arises. We want them utterly devoted to their country and their people and for that they must be brought up under hard discipline – to have respect for authorities and to have a clear focus.”

Farlan sips at his wine again and shudders, staring at the expression on his father’s face as he’s fallen silent to think; it looks angry, but grows somewhat sad when he suddenly glances at Christofer.

“I see,” he finally mutters; the words sound loud in the otherwise silent room. “In that case I’m not sure how fruitful this discussion can be, Georg. I’m afraid my own ideas differ quite significantly from yours.”

“You said before that you were curious to hear my side of it,” Herr Hahn argues, “and now I’m curious to hear yours.”

Farlan feels a kind of dread taking over him as he watches his father’s brows draw to a frown. Everyone at the table is quiet. They’ve all finished their soup but no one makes a move to bring in the next course. Farlan catches Christofer’s rigid posture when he glances at him, and in the back of his mind he’s still reeling from his father’s earlier admission that he’s thought about leaving the country. Even with everything, with the Jugend and the compulsory work service he’ll be facing soon, he doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t want to be parted from this life – or from Christofer.

“I do believe in discipline,” his father begins, “but in moderation. I fail to see the benefit of teaching my son anything by beating and humiliating him until he knows to obey my every whim. I hardly think that would encourage independent thought. Most likely I would be able to produce a poor copy of my own worst qualities, and I want my son to achieve and to be more than that in his life.”

Farlan catches his father turning to look at him and directs his own eyes on the empty bowl in front of him.

“I can’t agree with this emphasis being placed on physical strength alone,” the man continues. “In my opinion most things worth accomplishing in the world have come about as a result of strong minds and strong characters, not through the strength of bodies. Change for the better requires innovation and intellect. That’s where we should be directing our efforts: to sharpening the wits of Germany’s youth, to making sure that logic and rational thought become second nature to them. If the world is to be conquered – though I question whether conquering is a worthy pursuit in itself – it will happen through superior thought, not through superior strength.”

The room fills with silence again. Farlan and Christofer share a hasty glance before Farlan turns back to his glass of wine. Herr Hahn’s eventual sigh sounds like a gust of wind.

“As I said, you’re an idealist,” he says, “and clearly a man of vision. But not a vision I can agree with, especially when it comes to raising my son. I know what boys and young men are like. Give them any room to make up their own minds and soon you’ll find they don’t listen to anything you say, and break every rule you set for them.”

“I never found that,” Farlan’s father counters, and Herr Hahn laughs.

“Well, I can tell there’s not much you need to punish your son for,” he says, “with how little you’ve told him not to do.”

“I fail to see how you could possibly know what I–”

“Wine with dinner? At seventeen?” Herr Hahn points out and scoffs; Farlan nearly chokes on the gulp he’s taken and places his glass quickly on the table. “I’d never let my son touch the stuff at his age. Not a drop of alcohol has passed his lips. Isn’t that right, Christofer?”

“Yes, father,” Christofer says so readily and immediately that it makes Farlan shudder.

“Well I suppose I simply don’t see the harm in it,” Farlan’s father says. “Before he joined the Jugend Farlan had wine every Sunday at Communion. I don’t see how half a glass at dinner differs so very much, save for the amount and the presumed lack of transubstantiation.”

Herr Hahn scoffs again and shakes his head. “Well, to each his own, as I said,” he voices. “Perhaps you were right. We clearly disagree too much on this subject to have a fruitful conversation about it. All I have left to say is this: knowing a little of what the attitude is with the leaders of our country, I think you’ll soon find more people will agree with my point of view. In fact I wouldn’t be surprised if it became increasingly difficult for you to keep doing what you’re doing, considering the direction in which we’re heading.”

“It remains to be seen,” Farlan’s father replies calmly. “I still have hope that common sense will prevail in all of this.”

“Yes,” Herr Hahn agrees, “but it seems to me our definitions of ‘common sense’ don’t match either.”

The room falls eerily quiet once again until Farlan’s mother suddenly stands up from her seat.

“I should go get the lamb,” she says, fluffing the hem of her skirt. “Farlan, would you help me with the bowls?”

Farlan springs to his feet and gathers up all the dirty dishes before running them into the sink. He helps his mother ladle the gravy into a serving dish and carries the lamb into the dining room, hoping he could escape back into the kitchen. The atmosphere around the table makes his skin crawl; the serious expressions, the tight mouths and rigid shoulders, the hands that grip the utensils a little too tightly. Farlan keeps glancing at Christofer, looking for comfort, but the other boy’s face has gone entirely blank as if nothing in the room has any sort of effect on him.

There’s very little conversation while they eat the lamb, hardly anything but a few meek compliments. The food is delicious, the meat succulent and tender, the root vegetables perfectly seasoned. Farlan tries to keep his focus on it, but every time he looks up he catches someone’s displeased expression. After a while the lack of discomfort on Christofer’s face becomes almost encouraging. While Farlan and his mother gather up the dishes again, his father attempts another starts at a conversation, but neither one of Christofer’s parents seems to be in a talking mood; Farlan catches Christofer’s mother eyeing her husband nervously from across the table when he carries the dessert to the table.

The final nail is hammered into place on the coffin of the disastrous dinner party when Christofer’s mother compliments the Gugelhupf.

“I wish I could take credit for it,” Farlan’s mother replies, smiling. “The recipe is mine, but Farlan did the baking this time.”

Farlan can feel the eyes on him, can hear the soft clinking sounds of coffee cups being placed on saucers. He catches his father straightening his posture on his seat.

“I vowed to myself I wouldn’t bring up any more disagreements tonight,” Christofer’s mother starts, “but I feel I have to say something.”

“Undoubtedly,” Farlan’s father mutters under his breath.

“I don’t want you to think I don’t sympathise with you, because I do,” she continues. “I know all mothers want a daughter, someone to spend time with who’ll help around the house. But I can hardly believe that you would do such a disservice to your son as to treat him as if he were–”

“I like doing it,” Farlan interrupts her; he can feel his hand shaking, and he’s not sure if it’s because of his anger or because everyone’s looking at him. “I like baking. I like helping out around the kitchen.”

Christofer’s mother’s eyes fill with sympathy as she looks over at him. “I’m sure you think you do, dear,” she tells him, sounding so condescending that it makes Farlan grind his teeth together, “but if you had been raised right, you’d barely want to know where the kitchen is.”

The stifling silence carries on in the house even after the guests finally leave, and Farlan isn’t sure whether it’s better or worse than the alternative, of having his parents tell him they don’t want him spending time with Christofer anymore. In the evening he sneaks to the door of his parents’ bedroom, listening in on their conversation, biting the nail of his thumb to keep his nerves in check. It sounds like bad news from the first.

“The nerve of those people,” Farlan can hear his father huffing. “To question how we’re raising _our son_ when their own philosophies go completely against any logic, any reason, any _common sense–_ ”

“Please, dear. Try and keep your voice down,” his mother interrupts him. “I don’t want Farlan to hear this.”

“I’d like nothing better than to tell him not to see that boy again,” his father says, and Farlan’s breath catches on the lump that’s suddenly formed in his throat. “You know I would.”

“I know,” his mother replies, “but I also know you won’t do any such thing.”

Farlan bites through his nail when his father sighs; he can hear the bed springs letting out a loud squeak when he sits down. “Of course I won’t,” he admits. “But I don’t like this. I don’t like this one bit.”

“Oh, I know, dear,” Farlan’s mother whispers. “That awful woman. And no wonder the children are so well-behaved, they’re probably scared witless of the father.”

“Yes,” his father agrees. “You can tell they’ve only come into money recently. But that’s not what bothers me.”

“What is it then?”

“Suppose all this doesn’t blow over,” he starts. “Suppose Hitler stays in power for years to come. Do we really want people like that knowing our business, where we stand on these issues? Do we really want our son to spend time with people like that?”

“Do you fear he’ll become like them?” his mother asks his father. “Or do you fear they’ll bring trouble?”

Farlan listens to the silence that follows nervously to its end, a heavy sigh his father lets out. “I don’t know,” he finally mutters. “To me either option is as bad as the other.”

Though he can hear his parents continuing, Farlan walks away after those words, wondering if he heard what he wanted to hear, and whether it wasn’t as bad as he expected. In his bedroom he sees his Jugend uniform hanging off the door of his wardrobe and grits his teeth against the bitter tears rising to his eyes, feeling again like there’s no way he can please everyone, or anyone for that matter. Like he’s all wrong for this world, and no matter what way he tries to turn, no matter what he does to fit in, there’s always someone telling him he’s wrong, that he’s doing the wrong thing, that he’s a disappointment: in so many ways a disappointment.

And still his last thought before falling asleep is this: that Christofer thought he was handsome. That Christofer thinks he’s right. That he hasn’t disappointed Christofer. That he mustn’t.

 

**July, 1935**

His father raises the subject at dinner on the first weekend after the end of the semester; their annual trip to Rügen, to their little house by the Baltic sea. It’s what Farlan has been waiting for. He knew it’d be better to wait than to ask so he’s kept quiet, even when the urge to know the answer has gotten in the way of his summer reading. He feels like the time is right for the question. His father has been in a good mood for weeks, ever since Farlan graduated with top marks, ever since he quit the Jugend and buried his uniform under a pile of clothes in his wardrobe. And still, when he finally utters the words, Farlan expects an immediate refusal.

“Can Christofer come with us to Rügen?”

Farlan watches as his parents exchange a look, keeps his eyes on his father as he stops to think before saying, “Has he got permission from his parents?”

Farlan shakes his head. “I haven’t even asked him yet,” he admits. “I wanted to hear what you think first.”

A calculated move, something he hopes will lower his father’s defences: the respect, the act of a dutiful son – a son who didn’t sneak two glasses of spirits out of his father’s bottle and replace them with water just a week earlier.

“I don’t see the harm in it,” his father says, surprising Farlan both in how quickly he replies and in how willingly he gives his permission, “as long as his parents are fine with it.”

Farlan nods and turns back to his dinner. That, of course, is the second and much more trying obstacle. Though they never speak of it, Farlan knows Christofer’s father doesn’t like Christofer spending his afternoons with Farlan. But this is important, enough so to challenge that: they don’t have much time left.

Farlan brings up the matter as early as the following day when they’re lying on a quilt in the garden behind the house, taking a break from reading their favourite parts of The Iliad. He’s expected Christofer to be excited, to have the new plan lift his mood and take his mind off the fact he never got enough money in his saving for that trip to Greece, and the impending separation that neither one of them wants to address.

“What’s there to do on Rügen?” Christofer asks. “Do you swim?”

“Sure,” Farlan replies, sighing, “though mostly I just lie on the beach and read.”

“You’ll swim if I come along,” Christofer tells him. “I’ll make you swim. I’ll carry you into the water, like Tarzan and Jane.”

Farlan laughs, feeling a warmth spreading to his chest, and blaming the sun.

“What else should we do but swim?”

Farlan takes a moment to think. “There’s a pavilion overlooking the sea,” he tells the other boy. “And it’s a town like any other. We can go to the cinema, or sit in cafés. We can go on walks.”

“See, I knew you miss the Jugend already,” Christofer says and laughs. “You don’t know what to do with yourself without going on marches.”

Farlan makes a face at him before folding his arm under his head. “I want to read a few books while I’m there,” he says. “I don’t think I’ll have much time after the summer.”

“Well you can’t read all the time,” Christofer argues. “I’ll get bored, and then I’ll do something stupid.”

“Why would you do something stupid just because you’re bored?” Farlan asks him but Christofer simply shrugs.

“Do you think they might still be showing _Triumph of the Will_ in cinemas there?”

Farlan groans. “I am not going to watch that with you again,” he asserts at once. “It’s a waste of money. Besides, I already remember every line of it.”

“Fine,” Christofer gives up – much more easily than Farlan expected. “We can go see something else, so long as it’s not just singing and dancing.”

Stretching his arms and arching his back, Farlan smiles, letting the sun warm his body and trying to forget all the things that threaten to break the peace. He glances quickly at Christofer; the summer has brought out those freckles on the bridge of his nose again. They remind Farlan of the day they met, and he can hardly believe it’s almost been a year. It feels as though he’s always known Christofer, like he’s never spent a single afternoon alone in his room instead of with the other boy.

“Will I sleep next to you?”

Christofer’s question takes Farlan by surprise, and he wastes a few seconds before nodding.

“Good,” the boy says, smiling but not looking at Farlan. “I was hoping I would.”

Another in a long line of things Christofer has said which make Farlan wonder, make his heart beat and flutter furiously inside him. And still, a year later, he chooses to ignore it, turning instead to look up at the sky, shivering when a cloud moves over the sun.

That night Farlan loses himself in plans for the trip, imagining the heat of the days, the rich blue of the sea, how it would deepen that bronze glow of Christofer’s hair. Though he knows he shouldn’t, and though he feels the burn of shame for it both during and after, Farlan lets his dreams take different paths, dark ones, ones that lead him to feel nauseous as he cleans their aftermath off his skin. The thought feels like a small salvation, sharing the week with Christofer instead of being apart, like it refuses to become a premonition of the autumn that’s fast approaching.

Three days before their planned departure, Christofer suddenly tells Farlan his father has drawn back the permission he gave earlier. Neither one of them needs to say out loud the reason why: they both know it, know full well that Christofer’s parents don’t like Farlan any more than Farlan’s like Christofer. It’s Farlan’s first instinct to blame Christofer for getting his hopes up, but when he sees the miserable expression the other boy has, he swallows his words instead; it always breaks him, seeing Christofer so downtrodden.

“I’m so disappointed,” Christofer mutters. “You have no idea. It makes me want to steal something from your father’s supply again.”

Farlan gives a small laugh, wishing it could be more encouraging. “Me too,” he agrees, sighing as he falls down on his bed. “It won’t be nearly as much fun without you.”

Christofer lies down next to him, and Farlan can smell the sweat that has gathered under his arms. “Not to mention the thing you’ll be most upset about,” he says, sighing so deeply it sounds a little dramatic.

“What will I be most upset about?” Farlan asks him, dreading the thought he might bring up the work service, and the military service after that, but instead Christofer smirks.

“You’ll miss showing me your swimming trunks,” he says, laughing as Farlan drives his elbow into his ribs.

On the day of their departure, Farlan does his best to hide his disappointment. His father is in high spirits, he always is when they go up to Rügen, but somehow to Farlan it feels as though this is the best mood the man has been in all year. For his sake Farlan makes his smiles plenty and easy as he helps him pack up the car with their luggage. They’re talking about Proust when a sudden shout erupts from down the street and Farlan turns to see Christofer running towards them, a full backpack swinging left and right on his shoulder as he jogs over to them. The sight sets his heart on fire.

“Father changed his mind,” he gasps, leaning onto his knees. “Sorry. I ran all the way from home, I was afraid I’d be too late.”

Farlan turns instantly to look at his father, to see if the change has altered his mood, but the man is smiling just as widely as before. He even gives Christofer a pat on the shoulder as he takes the boy’s backpack and loads it into the car.

“Glad you could join us,” he says. “I know Farlan was upset to find out you couldn’t come.”

“Trust me, he wasn’t half as upset as I was,” Christofer replies, fanning his reddened face with his hand. “I had to beg and beg but he changed his mind in the end.”

Farlan’s cheeks begin to ache from smiling before they’ve even left the city. The drive is so peaceful, he keeps telling Christofer about the island while his parents add a titbit here and there. No one talks about politics, no one points out the Reich flags they see along the way, no one mentions Hitler for several blissful hours. And it’s no wonder Farlan’s sick to death of hearing about any of it, about the for-and-against regarding the work service law and the compulsory military service. It feels like they’ve all decided to allow him to forget, if just for a week.

They stop for lunch at Stralsund and Farlan enjoys listening to his father talking about the town’s varied history, even though he’s already heard it many times before. Christofer nods along enthusiastically, even though Farlan knows he has little interest in the subject; he seems eager to make a good impression. They take the ferry across the sound, spending a good while marvelling at the construction work for the new bridge. Farlan’s father says they’ll be driving over it to the island next year – the first thing the National Socialists have done that the man approves of, as far as Farlan can tell.

It takes them another hour to drive across Rügen to Sellin, where the sea kisses the soft beach and beats against the beams under the pavilion, which stands atop the shallows with its high arched windows, reflecting the sun off its white paint. The beach is crowded with people as they drive along it but Farlan turns his attention away from the sea, pointing out into different directions toward the town to let Christofer know where everything is. The other boy seems only mildly interested.

“Father told me they’ve got some big building project planned nearby,” Christofer says and for the first time Farlan’s father’s face grows grim.

“Yes, about twenty kilometres north from here,” he replies. “They’re set to start building soon. 4.5 kilometres worth of hotels. Can you believe the stupidity of it?”

“Won’t it be good for the island?” Christofer asks. “It’ll bring a lot more tourists here.”

“They’ll never be able to fill out the hotel,” Farlan’s father claims.

“And even if they did, can you image cramming that many people on the beach?” Farlan’s mother adds. “They’d wreak havoc.”

“Still, it would bring new jobs to the area,” Christofer keeps arguing just as they stop in front of the house, and Farlan is glad their arrival brings an end to the conversation; if he could make it so, he wouldn’t hear a single argument on anything more significant than where to eat lunch during the entire week.

They enter the house and start the task of drawing the sheets off the furniture, opening the windows to let out the dust that fills the air as they work. Farlan feels himself growing nostalgic as he looks at the simple neoclassical furniture and the familiar soft green glow the light creates as it filters through the linen curtains. Every once in a while he catches Christofer looking around himself, expression somewhere between impressed and dismayed, like he’s upset to see how well-to-do Farlan’s family is. Tired from the drive, Farlan leaves his parents to fix up the rest of the house and goes to his bedroom where Christofer follows him, falling down on the bed beside him.

“Which side of the bed is yours?” he asks Farlan who lets out a laugh.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I’ve always slept in the middle.”

“Of course you have,” Christofer says and sighs. “Sometimes I wonder if you know how lucky you are.”

Farlan doesn’t reply and refuses to get upset, shrugging the comment off by getting up on his elbow and turning to Christofer. “You’re lucky too,” he says, “that your father changed his mind.”

“I know,” Christofer replies and grins widely. “I can’t wait to get to the beach. This is going to be so great.”

“Well, it’s not Greece,” Farlan says, “but it might be the next best thing. For now, at least.”

“Greece can wait,” Christofer agrees. “We have the rest of our lives to do that.”

They don’t go to the beach that day. Instead they unpack their things and laze around the house as Farlan’s parents cook dinner together – the only time his father participates is on the island. Farlan loses himself into a book of Proust from his father’s collection. Christofer reads too, but fitfully, stopping every once in a while and demanding Farlan’s attention with a question or a comment or a kick on his leg. They both tire early, as if the hours spent in the hot car have worn them out so entirely that mere hours after the sun has set they can barely keep their eyes open. Farlan doesn’t know how to ask Christofer whether he wants to top-to-tail, thinking the other boy might find it strange Farlan hasn’t assumed they would. When he walks into his bedroom after brushing his teeth, he finds Christofer already under the covers, his head on a pillow by Farlan’s.

“Do you think we’ll go to the beach tomorrow?” the boy asks Farlan as he joins him, leaving a good twenty centimetres between them.

“I’m sure we will,” Farlan answers, drawing the covers closer to his chin, saying a quiet prayer to God so He’d keep him from any embarrassing situations – not that he thinks God is likely to answer a prayer like that. “Do you mind if I turn off the light?”

Farlan catches Christofer’s nod and turns the switch, trying to relax his body as he lies down on his side, facing away from the other boy. He can feel his warmth through the light linen sheet they’re sleeping under; the heat threatens to gather down to his groin already. Farlan grits his teeth against the sensation, feeling Christofer’s fidgeting in the rising and falling of the mattress.

“Hey Farlan?” he asks in a hoarse whisper just when Farlan has managed to force his thoughts onto Proust.

“Yes?”

“I was wondering,” the other boys starts; Farlan can hear him swallowing in the silence. “Do you think Achilles and Patroclus ever kissed?”

Farlan feels every muscle in his body tensing up at once, as if someone had run electricity through him. He repeats Christofer’s words in his mind a few times before he can bring himself to reply.

“I don’t know,” he whispers back. “I suppose they might have. It may have been a way of greeting, even.”

“I think they must have,” Christofer says and falls quiet.

Farlan waits for a moment for the other boy to continue, but he never does. Instead he falls asleep while Farlan stays awake for hours, listening to his steady breathing and trying to calm his own. His mind finds a hundred explanations to Christofer’s words, each more unlikely than the one before, each further from what he wants to imagine, what he would be imagining if he were alone in the bed.

By morning he has managed barely four hours’ worth of sleep, blinking in the sunlight and pushing his hair grumpily up from his forehead and rubbing his eyes. Christofer throws his arms up and stretches his body, letting out a wide yawn before proceeding to do twenty press-ups and twenty crunches, all in the time it takes Farlan to sit up in the bed.

“Are we going to the beach?” Christofer asks him as he struggles to get into his trousers after splashing some water on his face.

“Ask me nothing before breakfast,” Farlan mutters, turning toward the window when Christofer pulls his shirt off over his head.

They eat quickly before packing up their things and leaving the house, walking the short distance to the seashore by themselves. There’s a crowd gathering already at such an early hour: families with children who have been too impatient to wait – much like Christofer, Farlan notes – and older couples out for morning strolls. Farlan can see the pavilion against the glittering blue of the sea as they walk into the changing rooms, only finding a spot on the sand after they’ve pulled on their swimming trunks. There’s a cool breeze that blows across the beach and raises goosebumps on Farlan’s skin.

“What are you doing?” Christofer asks Farlan who has sat down on the beach. “Aren’t we going to swim?”

“It’s still early,” Farlan argues, shivering a little. “The water will be cold.”

Christofer looks down at him like he’s lost his mind before shaking his head and taking a seat next to him. “You are such a Nervous Nelly, do you know that?”

“I am not a Nervous Nelly,” Farlan counters, “and even if I were, I wouldn’t care a fig that I would be.”

“So what are we supposed to do?” Christofer asks, lying down on his back with his arms folded under his head. “Just stare at the sky like this?”

Farlan lies down too and sighs. “Why not?” he says. “The sun is warm, the sand is soft. What’s so bad about this?”

Christofer sighs too. “Well,” he seems to give up, “maybe it’s not so bad. But I will get bored before long.”

“That’s fine,” Farlan promises with a smile, wishing more than anything that he could reach for Christofer’s hand and hold it. “Feeling a bit of boredom won’t kill you.”

They spend an hour like this, just soaking up the sun and talking, making plans for the week and for the following summer, jumping over the upcoming separation. Once the beach starts to fill and Farlan’s parents join them, they go for a swim, wrestling in the cool water and racing each other back to the shore. They don’t return to the house until it’s time for dinner, after which they all gather into the sitting room to listen to the radio. Farlan can feel the day in his limbs when they go to bed that night, and it’s only then that he realises to be grateful for the distraction. He remembers Christofer’s earlier words as soon as they lie down and turn off the lights, and he wonders if Christofer is thinking about them too, and whether that’s why he’s suddenly so quiet.

The days on the island seem to follow a pace of their own, disappearing faster than Farlan would like. They spend their days on the beach, have lunch at the pavilion and even go to the cinema one evening. Everything feels so peaceful, so simple. The swastika flags in the town are barely a red blur at the edge of Farlan’s vision since no one brings them up, no one speaks of anything unpleasant or leads them all to quarrel about anything. But the days slip by too fast though Farlan tries to hold on to them, tries to stretch them out by staying up half the night talking with Christofer. On most days he feels as though the only thing keeping them awake is the swimming they do, the way they splash the cool water onto each other’s faces. They don’t talk about Achilles and Patroclus again, not until one cloudy evening when they’re both reading in the sitting room, and Christofer puts down The Iliad to ask Farlan another question.

“You said it might have been a form of greeting,” he says, and Farlan doesn’t miss the fact he assumes Farlan understands what he’s talking about. “What did you mean by that?”

Farlan glances toward the kitchen where he can hear his parents, swallowing with effort before muttering, “I don’t know. Some people do. Like the French. They kiss each other on the cheek.”

“Oh,” Christofer says, pausing to bite his lip. “On the cheek.”

“But I really don’t know,” Farlan hurries to add. “Maybe they used to just… shake hands.”

“Right,” Christofer agrees, meeting Farlan’s gaze for a moment of unwavering silence before turning back to the book.

Farlan does the same, though he knows he can’t focus on the words on the page anymore. He can sense Christofer on the armchair next to his, he can see the boy on the periphery of his vision, like the bronze of his hair keeps catching his eyes. When his parents suddenly walk into the room, Farlan jumps from the interruption.

“We’re going out for a little walk,” his mother says, smiling and wrapping a scarf around her head. “We won’t be long.”

Farlan nods; his mouth feels too dry to form speech. He listens to the sounds of their quiet conversation, their footsteps in the hallway, the eventual closing of the door that leaves the room humming with the sudden lack of sound. Farlan counts a few seconds and tries to turn his focus back onto his book, but the quiet hiss of Christofer’s breathing scatters his thoughts; it’s so fast and shallow. Farlan lifts the book to his face and bites his lip to keep his concentration, flinching when Christofer places a soft kick on the leg he’s thrown over the other.

“Don’t start,” Farlan warns him in a whisper – it’s the only way he manages to utter the words.

“I’m not doing anything,” Christofer counters, smirking widely as he turns back to The Iliad.

Farlan tries to catch the author’s thought again, but the sentence is long and rambling and he has to go back to the start. He’s barely reached where he left off before when another kick makes the book jump in his hands.

“Why do you keep bothering–”

“I’m not doing anything,” Christofer says again, his grin growing even wider when he turns away.

Farlan lets out a heavy sigh and goes back to the top of the page, reading only a few words before Christofer calls out his name.

“What?” he snaps back, looking up at the other boy when he suddenly stands up and holds out his hand.

“Come,” he says; his voice sounds hoarse and breathy. “I want to show you something.”

Farlan looks at the extended hand for a moment, feeling the furrowing of his brows, feeling the inexplicable tingling of his fingers when he finally lets Christofer pull him up. The skin of his hand feels rough against Farlan’s own when he leads him through the house over to his bedroom where he closes the door, leaning against it as Farlan stares at him, confused and growing quickly out of breath.

“What is it that you want to show me?” he asks, his voice so quiet he’s surprised Christofer can even hear it.

Farlan watches as the boy pushes himself off the door and crosses the space between them, stopping so close the tips of their shoes are mere centimetres apart. Farlan looks at his face, at the freckles that have grown darker during their days spent in the sun, at the reddened cheeks, at the playful green of his eyes that have now grown more serious than Farlan’s ever seen them. Just as he’s about to repeat his question, Christofer takes a hold of his hand again, bringing it down to his abdomen before sliding it past the waistband of his shorts and underwear. In the seconds it takes him to pull back, Farlan can feel Christofer’s hardness against his palm, the heat and thickness of it, the wetness the tip leaves on the heel of his hand.

“What are you–” Farlan gasps during the second they spend staring at each other before Christofer grabs a hold of the front of his shirt and pulls him into a kiss so forcefully Farlan fears his lips will bruise from it.

They part for another second before breaching that gap again so greedily it leaves no doubt in Farlan’s mind of the fact that Christofer has wanted this for a long time, perhaps even for as long as he himself has. He can feel it in the muffled gasps, can hear it in his quiet, throaty moans. Farlan feels all his desire pooling down below his navel and without thinking, like guided by some terrifying instinct, he pushes his hand into the other boy’s underwear, managing barely a handful of clumsy strokes before Christofer presses his body harder against his, trembling against him as he spills soundlessly onto Farlan’s hand. Without knowing what else to do, Farlan keeps his fingers steady around Christofer’s length, feeling each change in the state of it while his own erection throbs in his trousers.

“Sorry,” Christofer finally mutters. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

The sound of the front door opening in the distance cuts him off and forces them apart at once. Farlan glances down at the mess on his hand before looking up at Christofer, seeing his own panic reflected back at him.

“Boys!” his mother calls out in the sitting room.

They both jump into motion. Farlan grabs a towel from the back of a chair and wipes his hand on it while Christofer tends to the front of his shorts and inside them. Neither one of them says anything, they barely even look at each other before Farlan pulls the door open a fraction, making sure the lower half of his body is still hidden behind it.

“Oh, there you are,” his mother says, shaking her scarf. “Another lovely walk ruined by rain.”

“That’s a shame,” Farlan manages, feeling like his throat might close up at any moment.

“Well, I might as well get started on supper,” she voices, like talking more to herself than him. “Which would you both prefer, tea or hot chocolate?”

“Tea is fine,” Farlan tells her, somehow pulling his lips into a smile that fades as soon as he closes the door again.

He looks over at Christofer who has stayed behind to hover by the dresser, arms folded across his chest, like he’s shielding himself from something. Neither one of them says a word. A minute passes in complete silence before Christofer walks out; Farlan can hear him entering the bathroom down the hall.

The quiet between them lasts for the rest of the evening, not breaking even when Farlan turns off the light on the bedside table though he thought it would be easier to speak in the darkness. He tries to think of something to say, some way to bring it up, but in the dark the silence seems even more suffocating than it did before. When in the morning Christofer seems determined to act like nothing ever happened Farlan decides quickly to go along with it, preferring the pretence to the weight of the questions he’s too afraid to ask. They spend the day on the beach again though it’s not very sunny or warm, and the wind feels even colder for it. Farlan knows full well it’s a distraction, just like he knows they’re both talking a bit too loudly and a bit too much.

The effort of putting on the act makes Farlan dismissive of the gloominess he feels during their last evening on Rügen, but by morning he can no longer ignore it. It seeps into his mind when he’s packing his things; overwhelming, like he’s trying to let go of something enormously significant, like he’s leaving behind the last summer of his childhood. The enormity of the feeling even keeps him blind to Christofer’s odd behaviour – it takes him until lunchtime to realise the other boy has barely said a word all morning.

“Is something wrong?” he asks once they’ve left the kitchen and are back in his room.

“No, nothing’s wrong,” Christofer replies, shrugging in passing as he sits down by the window and starts staring out toward the sea, his leg brushing against the chair as he fails to keep it still.

“Well if you’re sure,” Farlan replies, wondering whether it’s all because he never brought up the incident, whether it has hurt Christofer somehow, but having no better luck finding words for it. “Have you packed all your things?”

Christofer merely nods without looking at him, without even making a joke about how Farlan’s acting like his mother.

“Do you not want to leave then?” Farlan asks him, surprised to hear the strange bitterness in the quiet laugh Christofer lets out.

“No,” the boy says. “I don’t want to go back.”

The odd silence lasts all through the time they spend loading all their things back in the car, growing more and more tense the closer they get to Berlin. Farlan keeps glancing at Christofer as they pass through the country, taking note of the way his hands clench into fists and his heel drums a quick pulse against the car. He wonders whether the other boy built up the trip in his head even more than he himself did or whether he’s even more upset about them parting ways after the summer – perhaps fuelled by the incident, though Farlan doubts it, thinking Christofer would’ve made another move toward that end if that were the case. It’s not until they get back to Berlin that Farlan finally understands, the reason for Christofer’s mood standing right on their doorstep, red-faced and wearing an angry frown.

“Good day, Herr Hahn,” Farlan’s father greets the man quite amiably. “What brings you here?”

“I’m surprised you don’t know,” the man replies angrily, glaring at Christofer as he climbs out of the car. “I would think you would’ve noticed taking my son along to a holiday without my permission.”

Farlan’s heart skips a beat when he turns to look at his father, whose expression shows all the signs of the controlled anger he has so often shown to him.

“I fail to see how it’s my fault that you never taught your son not to lie,” he says, his voice much cooler now. “Christofer told us you had permitted him to go. I didn’t think I needed to doubt the word of someone as old as him.”

“Here we see it again,” Herr Hahn counters angrily, clutching Christofer by the arm and pulling him toward himself. “You know nothing about raising a son – and it’s obvious enough just from looking at your boy.”

Without saying anything further, the man yanks Christofer along, marching him down the street and out of sight; the boy doesn’t even turn to look back.

“Did you know he wasn’t telling the truth?” Farlan’s mother asks him, but he shakes his head.

“I had no idea,” he whispers, feeling an unease in the pit of his stomach.

Farlan doesn’t hear from Christofer for so long that he starts to fear the worst, that everything that happened on Rügen – including the fact they ever went there in the first place – has broken whatever friendship was between them. When he lies awake at night he wonders whether Christofer’s father has told his son not to ever visit Farlan’s house again. The thought does nothing to loosen the knot in his stomach; after all, Farlan would rather go back to the Jugend than go anywhere near Christofer’s home, or his father. A week passes, seven days of anxious dread, before a knock on the door sends Farlan running through the house. His joy at seeing Christofer turns to fear as soon as he sees the bruises on his face and the traces of a cut on his lip.

“What happened?” Farlan gasps, stepping forward on instinct. “Who–”

“Come on, Hausfrau, be a good hostess,” Christofer mutters, flashing a quick grin. “Invite me in. Do you want me answering any of that on the doorstep?”

Farlan moves to let the other boy in and follows him as he walks quickly up the stairs into his bedroom where he shrugs out of his jacket and sits down heavily on the bed. Farlan hovers by the door, not knowing what to say or ask.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Christofer tells him, laughing. “Most of it has already healed, anyway.”

“Did your father–”

“I even got praised for it at the Jugend meeting today,” the boy continues, as if he hasn’t heard Farlan’s question. “You know I didn’t cry out once? Takes real character to be able to do that, real strength. It’s a sign of a man, that.”

Farlan can’t help scoffing dismissively. “Who told you that?” he asks, taking a seat next to Christofer on the bed. “Herr Rösler?”

“It’s not just him, you know,” Christofer argues, turning to stare at his feet. “The Führer says–”

“Oh, I don’t care a fig what the Führer says,” Farlan interrupts the other boy, feeling sick to his stomach. “He shouldn’t do that. It isn’t right.”

Christofer stays quiet for a long while before letting out a quiet laugh. “Well,” he finally says, “it’s not all bad. There’s a silver lining, at least.”

“And what’s that?” Farlan asks, biting his tongue not to add anything snarky even when he sees Christofer’s apologetic smirk.

“I thought you might like to…” He lets his words trail off before continuing, “Make me feel better.”

“And what would make you feel better?” Farlan asks as his heart starts a race in his chest worthy of the Olympics.

“Why don’t you come closer and find out,” Christofer whispers.

So Farlan does.


	4. Chapter 4

**November, 1937**

The pattering of the rain against the high windows of the university library sounds sharp beyond the occasional turning of a page and clearing of a throat. It keeps catching Farlan’s attention and pulling his focus away from the book in front of him – the subject of which does little to help the situation. Though his watch is already showing a quarter to three, it’s a tempting idea to give up before the hour is full. But exams are fast approaching, and Farlan throws himself into the text; a last-ditch effort, and he can’t even pretend to be annoyed when someone interrupts him, whispering his name loudly and taking a seat across the table.

“Farlan the diligent,” Moritz says and laughs. “If you’re not careful, they’ll declare you the patron saint of students.”

Farlan greets the man and breathes a quiet laugh too. He doesn’t tell Moritz that the post has already been filled by several much more virtuous individuals: Aloysius, Gabriel, Thomas Aquinas. For some reason he never wants to correct Moritz – impressing the man by proving him wrong seems the wrong way to go about it. He can’t help staring at his face again: the sharp but well-proportioned profile, the dark brows, the smart little moustache over beautifully curving lips, the strand of brown hair falling over a gracefully sloping forehead. The youthfulness of his skin betrays the fact he’s some years past twenty-five.

“Or perhaps I’ve just revealed my ignorance,” the man says himself but continues, “Perhaps all you Catholic boys are just as responsible and hard-working, and I’ve simply never noticed.”

“I was just about to give up for the day,” Farlan admits, closing the book around his finger and turning his eyes on the cover; something about Moritz’s expression makes him nervous again. “I can’t bring myself to read another word.”

Moritz peers at the cover. “Ah, yes. Literary theory. A necessary evil, I’m afraid,” he whispers, looking both patronising and teasing. “But fear not, my budding academic. You’ll find out its uses soon enough.”

“I hope so,” Farlan breathes, feeling a quick shiver running down his spine. “I suppose there are no shortcuts when it comes to mastering the basics.”

“You’ll be applying them to practice in no time,” Moritz says with an air of superiority; his own research concerns German folklore – the only reason he’s not been thrown out of the university yet, as he likes to point out. He leans closer to Farlan and lowers his voice when he whispers, “In fact, the other night I caught myself getting into a fascinating exercise of attempting to apply the principles of Aristotle’s _Poetics_ to the novel I loaned you recently. I’m sure you remember the one.”

Farlan feels his face growing flushed and he turns again quickly to the book in front of him. Yes, he does remember. A few months ago he accepted an invitation to join Moritz for dinner – to welcome him into the whirlwind world of academia, the man said. The first surprise of the evening was that they enjoyed the meal at Moritz’s apartment instead of dining out. The second was the man’s casual revelation of the very thing Farlan had fought to hide for most of his life – and apparently he had been able to tell the same of Farlan the moment they had met. The book was the final surprise, though it only dawned on Farlan once he was back home and started reading. The novel – hidden cleverly between blank linen covers – was a German translation of an English original, or so Moritz had claimed; a story of a Frenchman who falls in love with a Hungarian pianist, detailing without shame the carnal pleasures of their liaison. It was the most shocking thing Farlan had ever laid his eyes on. He read the book three times before returning it.

“But then, can you blame me?” Moritz asks Farlan, looking around at the bookshelves with contempt. “They’ve burned all the other good books out there. Did you say your father reads Proust?”

“Yes,” Farlan replies. “He’s got several of his works in his collection.”

“Catholicism clearly works in your favour,” Moritz sighs. “Blessed both with good looks and parents with great taste. I doubt my father has even read _Mein Kampf_.”

Farlan blushes. “Well, I doubt my father has read that either,” he mutters, casting a wary glance at a young man passing their table. “And I have to admit, neither have I.”

Moritz pretends to gasp. “You absolute savage,” he whispers. “Do you not know that it is the single most important book of our time? Nay, the very height of all literature?”

Farlan grimaces and laughs. “I know the first paragraph by heart, if that helps,” he says, “but I never got past the first chapter, I’m afraid.”

“The riff-raff they allow into our esteemed universities these days…” Moritz says, tutting Farlan and shaking his head before smiling. “So you’re free for the rest of the afternoon? We’ll have dinner. I’m in the mood for oysters.”

“I can’t I’m afraid,” Farlan replies, remembering the time again and placing the book into his leather satchel. “Sorry. I’m supposed to be meeting a friend.”

“I won’t hide my disappointment,” Moritz tells him and sighs. “At the risk of appearing too curious… Would this be your friend Christofer you’re meeting?”

Farlan looks up hurriedly and nods, but doesn’t say anything. Though they’ve barely talked about Christofer, he still feels as though he’s already told the other man too much.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll find his company far more enjoyable than mine,” Moritz whispers, falling quiet for a moment as his eyes fill with an expression that makes Farlan feel nervous again. “But before I forget, I wanted to offer you another invitation – and I must insist that you accept.”

“I’ll of course try my best,” Farlan promises at once. “What’s the occasion?”

“Oh, nothing really. It’s just an informal little soirée I’m hosting this Saturday,” Moritz tells him, getting to his feet along with Farlan. “Despite the informality, do dress smartly – for my pleasure if for no other reason.”

Farlan can feel his cheeks burning as he picks up his bag. “I’m not sure about Saturday,” he confesses. “I think I have plans with Christofer.”

“Oh, by all means, bring him,” Moritz says, straightening the flower on his lapel. “I’m anxious to meet him, if I’m being quite honest. I feel the need to acquaint myself with the person who has so captured your curiosity.”

“Oh,” Farlan voices, fiddling with the clasps of his satchel as he tries to picture the meeting; it leaves him feeling dreadful. “Well, I can ask him, but I’m not sure that’s really something that would interest him. He’s not…” he stops to consider his words. “All I mean is, I’m not sure he’s very interested in parties.”

“What a strange affliction,” Moritz mutters absently, like talking more to himself, before looking up at Farlan again. “Well, I promise to do my best to hide how cross I will be with you should you not attend. It really won’t be the same without you.”

Farlan feels his cheeks heating up even further at the compliment, but it also makes a kind of anxious dread nestle somewhere under his ribcage. It’s the usual effect Moritz has on him; that mixture of nervousness, shame and pleasure.

“Sorry,” he breathes, gathering up his coat and gloves and umbrella. “I really need to-”

“Ah, yes. I mustn’t keep you,” Moritz tells him with a smile. “In fact, I’ll walk with you.”

They leave the library side by side, making a few remarks here and there about the bleak weather; Moritz reminisces about his summer touring the south of France, Italy and Greece. Farlan mentions his desire to do the same, which seems to please the other man.

“Oh, you must go,” Moritz tells him when they stop by the main doors for Farlan to pull on his coat. The man leans closer to whisper, “Don’t tell anyone here I said this, but our culture pales in comparison to the great Mediterranean civilisations. I’m sure you understand why saying such things out loud might be-”

“Yes, of course,” Farlan assures the man, pulling on his gloves and smiling. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep your secret.”

Moritz laughs; a low and oddly piercing sound. “Had I known you Catholic boys are so virtuous, I would’ve spent more of my time in Italy touring churches and cathedrals,” he says. His smile is both wicked and apologetic. “Perhaps some of your morality would’ve rubbed off on me.”

Farlan laughs nervously before wishing Moritz a good day; he catches the man looking after him when he runs across the courtyard to Christofer, who’s waiting by the gates.

“Who’s that?” Christofer asks him, sounding more than a little sour, staring across the yard at Moritz and narrowing his eyes.

“Just a friend,” Farlan tells him, adjusting the satchel on his shoulder and tightening his grip on the umbrella. “Shall we go?”

They start walking toward the tram stop, passing through Unter den Linden, which looks anaemic in the rain, having now been stripped of the pomp brought on by Mussolini’s visit a few months earlier. While they wait for the tram Farlan lights a cigarette, ignoring Christofer’s glares and sighs.

“Busy day?” he asks Christofer who shrugs, already loosening his tie.

“Nothing new really,” he replies and they fall quiet, holding the silence all the while they’re on the tram. Only when they start the walk up to Farlan’s house does Christofer say, “Sorry, I didn’t ask. How was yours?”

“I had a few lectures that were quite interesting,” Farlan tells him, but doesn’t go into details which he knows would only bore Christofer. “I stayed on at the library to study afterwards.”

Christofer hums a response that’s neither here nor there, holding the umbrella when Farlan looks for his keys and opens the door. He calls out for his mother, but she’s not at home.

“Are you hungry?” he asks Christofer as they hang their coats on the rack. “I could make you something.”

Christofer shakes his head, looking tired but smiling when he takes Farlan by the hand and leads him up the stairs to his bedroom. His hands are on the button of Farlan’s trousers before he’s managed to close the door. Farlan answers his kiss eagerly, falling against the door and throwing his head back as Christofer’s lips move down to his neck while his fingers close around Farlan’s length through his underwear. He exhales sharply, biting his lip as he arches against the touch.

“Farlan?” Christofer breathes in between quick pecks behind Farlan’s ear. “I was wondering if you’d… Let me do it today?”

Farlan closes his eyes and grits his teeth for a moment, hovering for a few seconds between the two bad options he has: saying yes, and disappointing Christofer. He thinks back to the last time they did it, how utterly awkward and undesirable the whole act made him feel, how the pain refused stubbornly to give more room for pleasure, even with the advice he’d gotten from Moritz during one painfully embarrassing conversation masked as analysis of the novel the man had lent him. Remembering the previous times forces the decision and Farlan shakes his head, catching Christofer’s dissatisfied sigh between his lips with a kiss.

“I don’t want that today,” he whispers.

“You never want-”

“I will,” Farlan promises, like he’s done many times before. “Just not today.”

Christofer sighs again, withdrawing from him until Farlan catches his hands and brings them back onto the front of his trousers while pushing him toward the bed. He lets the other man fall onto it and gets onto his knees, shuffling closer to unbuckle his belt. He catches Christofer looking at him and grins as he grabs the waist of his trousers and underwear and pulls them off along with his shoes and socks; he looks so good in a suit.

“You like this too, don’t you?” Farlan asks in a whisper, kissing his way between Christofer’s legs, feeling the trembling of his muscles on his lips and tongue. “You know I can make you feel good.”

Farlan can almost taste the second when Christofer surrenders, when he stops wishing for something else and decides to enjoy the moment. He can see it in the way he loosens his tie even further and folds his arm under his head to better look down at Farlan. He places his hand on Farlan’s head, guiding him by pulling and stroking his hair in turn. It doesn’t take him long – even now it never does. Like the eighteen months they spent apart were still weighing on him, making him as eager as that first time on Rügen.

Farlan empties his mouth onto a handkerchief before letting Christofer pull him onto the bed. He lets Christofer undress him, lets him draw trails on his skin with his hands and kisses. His want is making him uncomfortable but he lets Christofer take his time, marvels at the softness his expression acquires; a gentle admiration; a wordless worship. It’s at moments like this that Farlan knows how much Christofer loves him. On any given day he can find himself doubting it, but that look reaffirms his faith every time. Christofer loves him – perhaps even more than he deserves to be loved.

Afterwards Christofer falls asleep while Farlan stays awake, thinking about how good all of this should feel, the luxury of being together that he yearned for during the long months of work service, and military service after that. The half-formal letters they exchanged during those one and a half years were like written by strangers; they were always too afraid of them ending up in the wrong hands to say any of the things they really wanted to say. And then Christofer joined the party and Farlan stopped responding, preferring to spend the rest of the weeks before he was discharged by focusing on his anger. Even now – though they reconciled soon after he returned – Farlan sometimes shudders at the sight of that NSDAP pin on the lapel of Christofer’s jacket. But then, he shouldn’t be surprised that Christofer gave in to his father’s wishes. Ever since Rügen he has never failed to do so. He never even complained when his father made a deal to have his work service extended – it should’ve ended months ago – though he hates his work at the party office and finds it dull and all but meaningless.

Farlan turns to look at Christofer, taking in the length of his lashes, his parted lips, that bronze of his hair that he fell in love with all those years ago in Nuremberg. It used to be such a simple thought; he loved Christofer, he never doubted the wild beating of his heart when their hands brushed up against each other or the way he blushed at every smile and compliment. But nothing is simple anymore, nothing holds the certainty it once did, of everything working itself out, somehow, in their favour. Farlan thinks about his talks with Moritz, the open lewdness of them, the man’s thinly-veiled advances, the way he now blushes from those words rather than from anything Christofer says. They haunt his thoughts, those shadows, those doubts, and make a difficult task out of falling asleep next to Christofer. Even so, Farlan manages a restless half an hour, waking up only when he hears his mother calling his name downstairs.

Farlan opens his eyes to see Christofer’s wide-eyed stare for a mere second before they’re both out of bed, pulling on their clothes, mixing up their shirts for a moment before sticking their hands into the right sleeves. Farlan can hear his mother’s steps on the stairs and even then he knows they don’t have enough time. His hands are shaking as he tries to fix his buttons, his braces are still hanging by his thighs when he hears the quiet knock on his door. He has a split second to glance at Christofer, whose shirt is only half buttoned, just like his, and who’s barefoot, just like he is; their shoes and socks are still in a pile on the floor by the foot of the bed. Their eyes meet just as Farlan’s mother opens the door. Farlan watches as her expression changes from confusion to utter horror. He can feel his limbs growing numb, a prickling of his skin that spreads quickly to the sides of his face.

“We were just sleeping,” he says in a hoarse whisper, glancing back at Christofer. “We just… Fell asleep.”

His mother’s mouth tightens to a thin line at the words. She looks far more displeased now, as if the blatant lie is the thing she finds the most distasteful thing about this. Farlan can see her flinching at the sudden sound of the door opening and closing downstairs.

“That’ll be your father,” she whispers, casting a look at Christofer before saying, “Go wash up and help me get dinner on the table.”

“Yes, mother,” Farlan mutters; she has closed the door before he’s finished saying the words.

Christofer doesn’t stay for dinner, and Farlan doesn’t blame him. Instead he lurks out, barely stopping to throw on his coat before stepping out.

“Same time tomorrow?” Farlan mumbles but Christofer shakes his head.

“Can’t. I’ve got plans.”

“Oh,” Farlan voices, turning to stare at his shoes. “Well, some other time then.”

“I’m free the day after,” Christofer promises quickly. “Same time and place?”

“Sure,” Farlan agrees, muttering his goodbyes as he closes the door, feeling suddenly gloomier than the weather.

At dinner Farlan keeps studying his mother’s expression and her manner, but they reveal nothing. His father asks him about his day, they talk a little about his upcoming exam. No one mentions Christofer. Farlan half expects his mother to bring up the matter when she brings him his supper, but she doesn’t and afterward Farlan doesn’t know which makes him more anxious, the thought of talking about it or the persistent silence that has lingered in the house ever since he reconciled with Christofer. He thinks about starting the conversation himself, thinks about saying something along the lines of “about what happened earlier today” or “regarding what you saw.” But how would he continue? Would he go along with the panic-fuelled lie he told before? What alternatives did he have? To say “I love Christofer” would be to his mother an abomination, a delusion – mere figments of the sick imagination of a son who does nothing but sins under her roof, in sheets she then needs to wash and dry and put back into place. There are no words for what he has with Christofer. There are no words for what he is that anyone normal could understand.

 

When they meet up at Herr Klopp’s bakery on Saturday, Farlan is pleased to see that Christofer has listened to his pleading and dressed in his best suit. Farlan recognises it from the trousers and the shiny leather shoes – he knows Christofer’s wardrobe by heart – and he can’t help smiling, though he knows he looks more smug than pleased.

“Don’t,” Christofer warns him at once, sounding so sullen and immature that Farlan’s smirk turns into a sigh. “I’m only doing this to please you so I hope you’re happy.”

“You could at least try and keep an open mind,” Farlan tells him just as sourly. “Who knows? You might enjoy yourself for once.”

“I’d enjoy myself a lot more if we just spent the night by ourselves,” Christofer mutters, glaring at a few passers-by and lowering his voice.

“Doing what exactly?” Farlan asks him. “I’m tired of sitting in my room reading books and playing cards. Besides,” he starts, lowering his tone as well, “you know my parents are both at home.”

Christofer sighs again, resigning somewhat to his fate but still complaining all through the ten minutes when they wait for the tram, and all through the journey across the city, growing even more exasperated when Farlan tells him how far they’ll have to walk to get to Moritz’s apartment.

“I thought you liked walking,” Farlan throws back at him, “since you’re such an example of all the good that the Jugend is doing for the youth of our country.”

“My shoes hurt,” Christofer complains, making Farlan scoff.

“Christ,” he huffs. “You sound like a girl. Aren’t you supposed to know how to take a bit of pain?”

Christofer falls quiet; the expression on his face is grimmer than Farlan’s ever seen it. They continue on in a silence that leaves Farlan’s nerves bristling, and makes him wish he had never managed to talk Christofer into joining him. The task took him two days, during which Christofer went through every conceivable excuse not to go. All except the one that really mattered: that no one should ever find out he’d spent an evening with the likes of Farlan’s acquaintances, whom he declared at once to be Swing-Boys and perverts and traitors to the Reich. Now Farlan can only be relieved that he never told Christofer it was Moritz who loaned him the book; they read it together, and though it inspired both of them to new heights of pleasure, Christofer said books like it should hardly exists, and that anyone getting caught owning a copy should be thrown into prison, or at the very least issued a large fine. Farlan was too angry and exasperated to respond.

“I don’t understand why we had to dress up anyway,” Christofer mutters. “That Moritz fellow sounds really pretentious to me.”

Farlan rolls his eyes and tries his coat pockets for his cigarette case, stopping to light one but finding the container empty. He sighs his heaviest sigh of the evening so far and rubs at his temple when Christofer says he’s glad Farlan has run out.

“It’s a horrible habit,” he huffs. “Especially for you, with your asthma.”

Farlan glares at him before spotting a sign further down the street – he didn’t notice how bad a part of town they’re in until he sees it. He starts walking toward it to take a closer look, noticing the stars of David on the windows and the warnings by the door: “Don’t buy from Jews!” He peers into the shop, catching a glimpse of light, and a figure by the register.

“Don’t you dare,” Christofer hisses, clutching Farlan’s arm. “I swear Farlan, if you go into that shop I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” Farlan asks, yanking his arm out of the other man’s reach and scoffing. “Can you please stop being such a Nazi.”

“Don’t say ‘Nazi’,” Christofer counters. “It’s disrespectful.”

Farlan rolls his eyes again and pulls open the door, stepping into the shop. It’s much cleaner than he thought it would be – he may have expected to see a rat in the corner – but the half-empty shelves still make him crinkle his nose. He notices the owner looking at him and walks over, fighting to make his expression as neutral as he can. The man makes him nervous, staring at him contemptuously from under his wide-brimmed hat.

“Just get your damned smokes and let’s get the hell out of here,” Christofer mutters behind him; Farlan is sure the shopkeeper heard him.

“Have you got any cigarettes?” he asks the man whose eyes narrow even further. “Please?”

The shopkeeper huffs quietly as he pushes to his feet; Farlan catches the fringe of that weird scarf Jews wear pushing out from under his shirt. He walks over to a set of drawers and opens one, pulling out a pack of _Salem_ cigarettes and throwing it on the counter. Farlan pays for them quickly, feeling his palms beginning to sweat under the man’s hard glare; he doesn’t remember to say thank you until he’s halfway out the door.

“You’re damned lucky no one saw us,” Christofer mutters when Farlan lights a smoke; that first drag is a glimpse of heaven.

“ _You’re_ lucky, you mean,” Farlan corrects him, sighing out a cloud of smoke. “Come on. We’ll be late for the party.”

And just as Farlan predicted, they are the last to arrive. Moritz still greets them cordially, shaking Christofer’s hand and exchanging the usual platitudes people normally exchange in such situations. They’re introduced quickly to the rest of the guests – all men, and no one over Moritz’s age as far as Farlan can tell. He knows a few of them from the university: Bernd – a fellow student of literature – and his friends, Werner and Johann. Two of the guests Farlan has never met before – Otto and August, whose jade green suit is a touch too flamboyant even for his sense of style. The last guest, David, shakes Farlan’s hand briefly and delicately.

“We’ve met,” he says, and only then Farlan remembers the quick encounter of theirs; a few months ago the man interrupted one of his conversations with Moritz in a café not far from the university. They’d had to leave in a hurry; the man wasn’t allowed to stay and join them.

“Yes,” Farlan says, flashing the man a brief smile that goes unanswered. “Hello – again.”

“I’d shake your friend’s hand too, but…” David tells him, his gaze moving over to Christofer, who’s hovering awkwardly by the door. “Well, judging by that pin he’s wearing he’ll probably prefer it if I don’t.”

Farlan glances over his shoulder at Christofer too. “Oh,” he mutters, not really knowing what to say. “I don’t think… I mean, he’s not really like that. At least I’ve never–”

“Are you upsetting our guests already, David?” Moritz cuts Farlan off, passing him a gin and tonic and placing one of his hands on his shoulder before turning to him with an easy smile. “Don’t mind David. He’s just in a foul mood because I’m forcing him to spend time with people.”

“I suppose it’s what I deserve for living with someone who doesn’t care about other people’s feelings,” David replies, smiling widely and making Moritz laugh; Farlan, on the other hand, feels profoundly uncomfortable.

“Come away now, Farlan,” Moritz tells him, leading him away by his shoulder. “I can’t allow David to make you think less of me – and lately he’s been even less flattering that usual.”

“Oh, he wasn’t–”

“You’re so sweet,” Moritz interrupts him again, “and most likely far too innocent to spend long periods of time in my company. Not that it’s entirely without its benefits. Tonight, under my roof, you and your friends should feel free to be yourselves. No one here is a snitch – and besides, everyone here has equally much to lose.”

“Right,” Farlan says, blushing a little and taking a sip of his drink; it’s much stronger than he anticipated. “Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome,” Moritz replies, smiling. “In every sense of the word. And I should thank you, for taking my request to heart and showing up looking so utterly devastating.”

Farlan coughs out a nervous laugh and thanks the man again. From the corner of his eye he can see Christofer watching them intently, and he flinches at Moritz’s next words.

“You make a very handsome couple,” he says, glancing at Christofer. “You and your friend – who, I daresay, does not look too impressed with our conversation.”

“He might be in a bit of a foul mood too,” Farlan whispers, taking another sip of his drink when Moritz laughs.

“He might be a little bit jealous to see me talking to you,” the man tells him, something wicked in his smile. “We shouldn’t give him too much cause for concern – and luckily there’s something I need to tend to in the kitchen to provide a convenient exit for myself. But please, have a few drinks, smoke a few cigars – and above all, enjoy yourself.”

“I will,” Farlan promises, watching the man walk away before joining Christofer in the doorway.

“What were you two talking about?” he asks Farlan sounding, if possible, even more sour than before.

“Nothing really,” Farlan replies, taking a larger gulp from his drink. “Come on, let’s get you a drink. It’ll help you relax.”

They walk over to the bar and Farlan pours Christofer a glass of something he thinks is brandy before they find seats on one of the sofas. Farlan takes another look at Moritz’s sitting room; he’s seen it before of course, and being there again brings that evening back into focus. He admired the décor then too, as he admires it now. Everything in Moritz’s apartment is art deco or art nouveau, but done with taste and balance so that neither style overpowers the other. The light in the room comes only from small lamps on tables and in one of the room’s corners. A record is playing a quiet melody under the chatter of conversation.

“Didn’t I tell you they were Swing Boys and radicals?” Christofer asks Farlan in a whisper and he rolls his eyes as he lights a cigarette.

“Just because someone listens to jazz, it doesn’t mean they’re not an honest hard-working German,” Farlan tells him in an equally low voice. “Could you please just… Finish your drink and keep quiet if you have nothing nice to say?”

Christofer stops talking at once and focuses on his drink, throwing it back and refilling his glass without a moment’s pause. Farlan sighs wearily when the other man sits down again, guessing he’s taken offense at Farlan’s words and therefore decided to stay quiet for the rest of the evening.

His premonition proves to be correct: while Farlan himself enjoys the conversation, laughing with the others at jokes as well as frowning at the questions they raise about literature and art, Christofer remains speechless. A few hours into the party it suddenly occurs to Farlan that Christofer’s silence might just as well be caused by the fact that he has nothing to add to any topic as it is about his foul mood – they’re hardly the sort of things he ever thinks about, and God knows he has no interest in anything that would merit deeper exploration in the first place. At first Farlan feels a sting of embarrassment at Christofer’s behaviour, but relaxes quickly when he realises no one appears to mind or even notice it – no one except Moritz.

“I should’ve known better than to invite a roomful of academics,” he huffs dramatically. “We’ll be drifting from discourse to discourse for weeks if no one puts a stop to this madness. But sadly my social circles don’t extend very far from scholars and deviants – so I’m afraid this makes for a rather dull evening for you, Christofer.”

Farlan glances back to catch the other man’s shrug. “Doesn’t matter much,” he says, emptying his glass again; Farlan isn’t sure how many that makes.

“So if you’re not in academia, what do you do for a living?” David asks, sounding nearly as sour as Christofer.

“He’s doing his work service,” Farlan hurries to answer in place of the other man. “His father got him a cosy spot at the party office in Berlin. He was supposed to be done six months ago, but I think the old man wants to keep an eye on him.”

Behind him Christofer gets to his feet to top up his drink and from the stiffness of his posture Farlan can tell the words have made him angry.

“Keep you out of trouble, eh?” Moritz asks Christofer, but Farlan’s snort catches his attention better than Christofer’s brooding silence.

“Hasn’t worked that well, I’m afraid,” he mutters, sipping at his drink while a few people snicker. When Christofer sits back down, Farlan makes sure not to look at him.

“If I had to work at the party office I’d probably kill myself,” August says, placing another cigarette onto a long ivory holder. “Can you picture it? How much effort would go into pretending.”

“They’d probably still lock you up as soon as you’d step into the place,” Otto mutters and they all laugh, while August cocks his head and relaxes his wrist to cast the ashy tip of his cigarette into an ashtray.

“Hitler has made a crime out of having a sense of style,” he complains, brushing a lazy hand across the front of his suit. “Though I must admit, he does have an eye for uniforms. Whenever I see a man of the Gestapo or the SS I simply can’t help myself, I grow hard from a mere glance.”

Farlan coughs a few times into his drink while David snorts and Moritz laughs benevolently.

“It’s your misfortune that your tastes aren’t for the gentler and more delicate man like mine,” he says, growing pensive. “Although it seems you’ll have a wider range to choose from than me. I fear there won’t be many innocent young lambs left for me in the future.”

“The Jugend will make sure of that,” Otto remarks and Bernd nods along.

“The fucking Homo Jugend,” he sneers, raising his glass. “The worst five years of every boy’s life.”

“Speak for yourself,” Christofer suddenly snaps. “Just because you didn’t like it, it doesn’t mean normal boys don’t.”

There’s a moment of strained silence before Bernd scoffs. “I’m sorry, did you just say ‘normal boys’ as a way of excluding me from them?”

“So what if I did?” Christofer replies. “I know a lot more men who are still saying the Jugend was the best time of their lives than I do those who say they hated it. If you didn’t enjoy it, it’s probably because for once you couldn’t learn something and that upset you, and because you didn’t belong there like all the other boys did. That makes you abnormal, since most boys learn that stuff without a problem and have fun doing it.”

Bernd stares at Christofer blankly for a few seconds before uttering a quiet laugh. “Well then,” he says, raising his glass again, “here’s to me, and to all the other ‘unnatural’ boys present here tonight.”

August, Otto, Werner and Johann all raise their glasses too, and Farlan follows their example after a moment’s hesitation.

“Looks like the nays have it tonight,” Bernd declares, smiling at Christofer disarmingly. “Clearly the Homo Jugend enjoys a very lukewarm support among this bunch of unnatural men.”

“That proves nothing,” Christofer tells him flatly. “And you shouldn’t call it that.”

“Why not?” Bernd counters. “If I’d gotten paid every time someone asked me to give them a hand job – let alone caught someone else doing it – I’d be living in my own apartment by now. And don’t even get me started on the work service and the army.”

“I did that a few times too,” Werner admits quietly; he’s such a timid boy that Farlan wonders how he survived at all.

“Come to think of it,” he states, “I was stripped naked more often than once. There’s certainly something that could be read into it.”

“I heard of someone who got raped,” Johann says and they all fall suddenly quiet. “By like, five or six other boys I think. I mean, I knew someone who knew him. Or knew someone who knew someone who knew him. Anyway, I’m not going to repeat what he told me, but let’s just say that boy wasn’t whistling on his way to school for a while, that’s for sure.”

A strained silence falls for a moment before Christofer clicks his tongue. “Well, I never heard about any of that or saw anything like that,” he declares. “I had lots of friends and none of them ever heard about any of that either.”

“Just because you didn’t see it, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen,” Bernd tells him coolly. “And I wonder how many friends you would’ve had if they’d known what you’re _really_ like.”

“And what the hell do you think you know about–”

“Now, now, children, let’s…” Moritz interrupts them, standing up and accepting the empty glass David hands out to him. “Let’s not quarrel. Hmm? We were having such a lovely time before.”

Bernd and Christofer stare at each other – Farlan can see both of their chests rising and falling with the shallow breaths they take. Finally Bernd turns away and shrugs, smiling again.

“I’m sorry, Moritz,” he says, sighing dramatically. “Inexcusably rude of me. I hope I haven’t entirely ruined your soirée?”

Moritz utters a quiet laugh and places a soft hand under Bernd’s chin. “My poor boy,” he says. “Don’t you know you could never ruin a thing?”

David snorts loudly again as Moritz turns away to freshen up his drink. “I suppose there’s my silver lining,” he says. “I never had to put up with any of that – nor the work service or the army.”

“Oh, my God, you’re so lucky,” Farlan blurts out after a hasty gulp of his drink. “It was a nightmare. My father tried to get me a job at the national archives but they sent me out into the country to dig ditches and other horrible things. Everyone there was mind-numbingly stupid. And don’t even get me started on the army – if I’d not gotten discharged early I would’ve probably shot myself.”

“Why were you discharged early?” Moritz asks, voice full of concern and curiosity.

“I have asthma,” Farlan explains. “Even then they almost sent me on somewhere else. I had to beg them to let me start my studies – honestly, it’s as if they think all we need in this country are soldiers and builders.”

“Well, at least you were able to convince them,” David says now; it’s only the bitterness in his voice that makes Farlan realise what he said before. “Clearly it would’ve been a great loss if you hadn’t.”

“Don’t be unkind, David,” Moritz snaps at once, but the other man merely sneers.

“Of course it’s _me_ who shouldn’t be unkind,” he states, getting to his feet and snatching his drink out of Moritz’s hand. “Excuse me.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t…” Farlan starts, but his words trail off when the other man refuses to acknowledge them.

They all watch as he leaves the room, shifting their feet in the awkward silence until Moritz changes the record and orders Otto and August to dance. When Farlan sees Christofer straining his neck not to look at them, he turns instead to Bernd and they fall into a conversation about the upcoming exam. Later August entertains them with stories of his recent trip to Morocco where, he says, he studied with equal vigour the lengths and girths of the local men as he did the ancient ruins. Farlan can sense Christofer’s discomfort growing with every word.

“I want to leave,” he finally tells Farlan in a mumble when he’s refreshing his drink. “Can we please go?”

“You can leave if you want,” Farlan replies, feeling another sting of annoyance. “I’m not keeping you here against your will.”

“I don’t want to leave without you,” Christofer argues, glancing behind himself, at no one it seems. “I hate these people. I don’t understand why you would want to force me to–”

“I’m not forcing you,” Farlan repeats. “You can leave if you want. But I’m having a great time, and I’m staying for a while longer.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know, just–” Farlan snaps, stopping to take a breath. “A while longer. That’s all I can say. If you want to leave, then just go.”

He half expects Christofer to gather up his things and storm out of the apartment, but instead he joins him on the sofa, always lurking behind his back without saying a word. He tries his best to enjoy himself, and the task grows easier as he grows more intoxicated. He even manages to forget his embarrassment until he runs into David on his way back from the bathroom. He hesitates for a moment, wondering whether it would be best to just leave it, but the gin and tonics have lowered his defences and he walks forward instead, catching the man’s attention by quietly calling his name.

“I just wanted to apologise,” he mutters, fiddling with the handle of the door in front of him. “I really wasn’t thinking about what I was saying. I’m sorry. I don’t really go to many parties and–”

“It’s alright,” David tells him; his words aren’t slurring like Farlan’s own are. “It’s good of you to apologise. Thank you, it’s really kind.”

“I just didn’t want to leave any bad blood between us,” Farlan goes on. “I mean, I know we’re not friends, and we barely know each other, but… I mean, you seem to be close with Moritz, and I’m friends with him, so I thought it might be–”

“I don’t want to say I overreacted to what you said,” David suddenly interrupts him, folding his arms across his chest, “but I’m sure you didn’t really know what you were talking about when you said what you did.”

“No, I…” Farlan starts, considering the question for a moment. “No, I don’t really know.”

“It’s easy for you not to,” David goes on. “I used to be like you, you know. I didn’t care either – until I had to.”

“Why did you have to?” Farlan asks; it seems David thinks his drunkenness excuses his stupidity, since all he does is scoff quietly.

“I used to study at the university,” the man says. “Did Moritz ever tell you that? History and Classics. I was even planning a thesis.”

“Oh,” Farlan voices, suddenly realising just how awful his earlier words were, and wishing he could apologise again. “No, he never mentioned that.”

“Figures,” David sneers. “I’m sure he also didn’t tell you I live here now.”

“You live–”

“Yes,” David says, shaking his head, “and it’s… fucking awful, especially because he’s just like this. You know, he never even told me he was throwing a party until earlier today.”

“Why do you live here?” Farlan asks unintelligently; he feels like his head is spinning, like he should be reviewing every conversation he’s ever had with Moritz but his mind is too blurry.

“Because I have nowhere else to go,” David says, something in his voice breaking for a moment before he coughs and apologises. “Sorry. I never meant to make this a sob story. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. It’s just… You know, I can’t find any work anymore. My parents despise me. All I have is Moritz’s generosity – and it’s not as if that always comes for free.”

“Does he–” Farlan starts, catching himself and trying to grasp that thought, that horrible realisation, and to dress it up in words fit for company. “I mean, he doesn’t ask you to–”

“No,” David denies at once, though not very vehemently. “No, he never asks. But you know Moritz – it’s often more about what he doesn’t say than it is about what he does.”

Farlan thinks about the words and recognises the man in them, if faintly. His mind fights against the separation he still sees between the courteous man he’s come to know, the one who flatters him and offers him so much of his attention, and the man David is describing. The images don’t fit together, no matter how honest the other man sounds.

“I don’t want you to think I’m stupid,” David suddenly says, drawing Farlan’s attention again. “I know he has his eye on you.”

“No, Moritz and I are just–”

“Oh, spare me,” David snaps, uttering a quiet laugh. “I know, because he never mentions you. And I know you’re tempted to move on from that Nazi friend of yours too. But you are young, and he is wicked. And when they finally come for you – and trust me, they will, and it’ll be sooner rather than later – there is no scenario in which his money will protect the both of you, and there is no world in which he would choose you over his own precious self.”

Farlan looks at David and somewhere beyond the numbness he’s sure he looks both sad and confused in front of the other man’s anger, but he doesn’t care. He thinks about Moritz, thinks about how all this time he was living with David, sharing his bed with him, treating him so callously and making him hate Farlan so much though they’ve barely even spoken to one another. Suddenly he feels sick to his stomach.

“Excuse me,” he blurts, escaping quickly through the door on his left without fully caring which room is behind it.

Farlan runs quickly through the room to open the window, struggling with the clasps before he manages to push it open and fill his lungs with that damp, cold November air. His head is still spinning, and it takes him a moment to look around himself and stop leaning his forehead against the cool glass of the window. The sight of the neatly made bed behind him makes him decide against smoking, though his hand is already grasping for his cigarettes. Suddenly he wants nothing more than to leave the apartment, and when he hears the door opening behind him, he wishes more than anything that the person entering is Christofer, asking him again if they can go home already.

“There you are,” Moritz says; Farlan doesn’t want to look him in the eye. “I was wondering where you got to.”

“I just…” Farlan starts, wondering for a second if he should mention his conversation with David, but thinking better of it. “I needed some air.”

“You should be careful,” Moritz tells him, walking across the room and closing the window. “You’ll catch a cold.”

“Right,” Farlan mutters, still staring at his feet. “Thank you.”

He sees the man stepping closer and meets his eyes when he bends his knees to bring their faces level. There’s a friendly concern in his expression, a sort of bewilderment that makes Farlan want to avoid his gaze again.

“Are you alright?” Moritz asks him. “Did you and your friend have some sort of an argument?”

“Christofer and I?” Farlan asks to confirm and then shakes his head. “No, we didn’t. He just… Doesn’t really enjoy parties.”

“Yes, you did say that,” Moritz muses, falling quiet for a moment before finally saying, “I have to be honest. He is not the sort of person I pictured you being with.”

“What sort of person _did_ you picture?” Farlan asks, thinking again of David’s story, of all the lies Moritz has told – or rather, all the things he’s kept from Farlan.

The man shrugs. “I’m not sure now,” he admits. “Someone more… Refined, perhaps.” He takes another step toward Farlan. “You’re very special. Do you know that? I just thought you’d be with someone who knows how to appreciate that.”

“And how do you know he doesn’t?” Farlan asks, trying not to notice the man shuffling a bit closer still; he can feel the doors of a wardrobe against his back.

“I suppose I don’t,” Moritz grants, sighing. “But… He’s a Nazi, sweetheart. You must know what they’re like.”

“He’s not like that,” Farlan argues, frowning at the pity in Moritz’s eyes.

“Really?” he asks, smiling and uttering a quiet laugh. “Well, I’m sure you’d know better than I would. I suppose I just wanted to make sure he’s not…”

“He’s not what?”

“I don’t know,” Moritz says, his face showing concern again. “That he’s not… Coercing you or–”

“No!” Farlan exclaims at once. “No, Christofer he’s… He’s not like that at all! He’d never do anything to hurt me.”

“Oh,” Moritz voices, his smile somehow sadder now as he takes that last step closer, coming so near Farlan that their bodies are almost touching. “Then I’m glad. But I’d also hate to think you’re with him because…” His words trail off as his hand comes up to brush through Farlan’s hair. “Well, because you think you don’t have other options.”

Farlan can feel his heart in his throat, a pulsing pressure that makes him feel sick again. Suddenly, as he stares at Moritz, the handsomeness he saw before looks to him barely more than a wax mask, glued onto a face to hide how marred and unpleasant it is underneath. He can feel his formerly numb limbs coming alive with goosebumps and pinpricks as the drinks he’s had throughout the evening boil in his gut. He takes a step on his left, sliding against the wardrobe as he shifts out of Moritz’s reach.

“Sorry, excuse me,” he blurts, leaving the room and rushing into the bathroom where he empties his stomach into the toilet; it burns his throat and leaves him gasping for breath once he sits down on the floor, rubbing away the tears welling into his eyes. He doesn’t get to his feet until he can hear a soft knock on the door.

“Farlan?” Christofer’s voice. “Farlan? Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’ll be out in a second,” he calls out hoarsely, flushing the toilet before turning on the tap and splashing some cold water onto his face.

“Were you sick?” Christofer asks him when he steps back into the hallway; all Farlan manages is an absent nod.

“I think we should leave,” Farlan tells him weakly. “I think I want to go home now.”

They barely say goodbye to the others before they leave the apartment. The night has grown old and the city has fallen dark and quiet. The frost in the air makes Farlan shiver even worse than the drunkenness, even worse than the horrific memories he now has of the party.

“Christofer, I’m tired,” he says after they’ve walked a mere block. “Can’t we stay in a hotel for the night? I can’t walk all the way across town, it’s too far.”

Christofer stops on his tracks, frowning, thinking. “How do you think I’ll explain it to father?” he asks, sounding angry and exhausted. “Besides, you know I can’t afford–”

“No one’s asking you to pay for it, for fuck’s sake!” Farlan snaps, feeling his desperation in his clenched fists. “Just tell your father you fucked some girl. That’d make him happy, wouldn’t it?”

Christofer casts a glare in his direction, but doesn’t speak before he finally mutters, “Fine. We’ll go to a hotel.” As if he’s seen the reason behind Farlan’s words.

They get a room with separate beds in the first place they come across that doesn’t look entirely run down. Farlan drops his coat on the floor and kicks off his shoes without even turning on the lights. He can’t remember ever having felt so utterly worn out, not even during the nights at the work service camp when every part of his body ached from how badly he missed his home – how badly he missed Christofer.

“He gave you that book, didn’t he?” The man’s voice is full of accusation and betrayal. “Moritz. He gave you that–”

“Please, Christofer,” Farlan whispers, his voice breaking in the middle. “Please, don’t start. Not now. Not tonight. I just–”

“Have you slept with–”

“Of course not,” Farlan counters at once – but he can’t turn to face Christofer, not even in the dark. “Of course I haven’t.”

“But you want to,” Christofer says, and Farlan shakes his head, though he knows it’s only been true for less than an hour.

“No,” he replies; he means the words with every fibre of his being. “No, I don’t.”

“Right,” Christofer snorts. “I know you think I’m stupid, but I’m not that stupid. I saw the way he looked at you. That fucking disgusting–”

“I can’t help the way he looks at me,” Farlan says, finally turning around. “It doesn’t mean I want anything from him.”

“He’s vile,” Christofer growls; his face reflects the utter contempt in his voice. “They all are. They’re all disgusting perverts who deserve to get locked up. All they want is to spread around their revolting stories and lies and to make everyone else like–”

“Oh, shut up, Christofer,” Farlan snaps. “Stop acting like you’re better than them. Stop acting like we’re any different.”

“It’s not the same,” Christofer argues; Farlan catches him clenching his fists. “This. Us. It’s not the same. I’m not like those people. We’re nothing like them. This has nothing to do with–”

“Will you just grow up?!” Farlan exclaims, feeling the heat of his anger in his chest. “There is no difference between us and them! What, you still think what we do is somehow innocent because we’re just like Achilles and Patroclus, because you’re some great hero and I’m just your companion? Are you really telling me you’re still so fucking childish that you would honestly think–”

“Stop it, Farlan,” Christofer whispers, moving closer. “I’m warning you. Stop it.”

Farlan scoffs. “You’re pathetic,” he says, taking a step forward. “You’re not even brave enough to admit that you’re just like those other men, that as soon as we’re alone in a room together you can’t wait to get me on my knees.”

Farlan can see Christofer’s jaw clenching when he grits his teeth. “I don’t–”

“You don’t what?” Farlan asks in a whisper. “You don’t want to watch me undress? You don’t want to bend me over on that bed? You don’t want to fuck me all night, just ram your cock in my arse like all those other disgusting perverts, just press your body over mine and fuck me all–”

The hit lands on his jaw and sends him reeling backwards, has him bracing himself on the bed for support. The pain feels like a second punch when it pulses up, bringing tears along with it, making him taste blood that trickles into his mouth from some cut on his lip or tongue. His ears are ringing, he feels deaf and half blind when he stands up, facing the window that shows nothing but a brick wall.

“Farlan?” Christofer’s whisper sounds as broken as Farlan feels. “Farlan, I’m… Are you…”

He can hear Christofer shuffling back and forth, agitated and uncertain, and he wonders what he’s feeling. Does he fear he’ll scare Farlan by walking up to him and touching him? Does he fear he’ll hit him again? Does he feel there’s nothing he can say to make it better so he can’t say anything at all?

“Farlan,” Christofer gasps again; he’s crying. “Farlan, I’m so… I’m so sorry, I never meant to do it. You know that I don’t want to hurt you. Don’t you? You know that. I just… I got so angry, I don’t know why I got so angry but I–”

“It’s alright,” Farlan breathes. He feels so calm, like he’s not really there. “I know. You didn’t mean to hurt me.”

“Fuck,” Christofer swears, sobbing through the hand he’s clasped over his mouth. “I don’t want to hurt anyone, Farlan. I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t–”

“I know,” Farlan says again, wiping the tears off his own cheeks before finally turning to face Christofer. “I know you don’t.”

“How did things get like this?” the man asks, sitting down on the bed, his hands lying uselessly on his lap, large and strangely immobile, like they’re not really a part of his body. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. This isn’t what I’m supposed to do. He wasn’t supposed to make me do this.”

Farlan sits down next to him, feeling a second of reluctance as a heaviness in his limbs before he gets them to work. He drapes an arm around Christofer and pulls him closer, leaning his cheek against the top of Christofer’s head.

“I can’t be like them,” Christofer mutters; Farlan can feel his tears falling onto the back of his hand. “I just can’t.”

Farlan feels the numbness in his mind and body, the complete lack of emotion. In a world with no certainty, it’s the most soothing thing there is.

“I know,” he whispers.


	5. Chapter 5

**March, 1938**

The record player hums out a song, so quietly that Farlan wouldn’t have been able to catch the words even if he’d tried and focused on them. Nevertheless, it’s better entertainment than the wireless downstairs that spews out nothing but the _Anschluss_ day in, day out. Farlan hates how smug it has made Christofer, how ready he is to talk about the Führer and his plans all the time now. He glances quickly up from his book when the man yawns on the bed and folds one arm under his head. He’s reading a copy of _Der Stürmer_ – just the sight of the repulsive dark figure of a man on the cover is enough to put Farlan in a foul mood and send shivers down his spine.

“I don’t know why you bother reading that,” he mutters to Christofer, who doesn’t look up from the paper. “It’s all just a bunch of rubbish. Most of it, anyway.”

“Just because you don’t want to see what’s going on in this country doesn’t mean it’s rubbish when people write about it,” Christofer tells him with no fire or fervor in his voice, and yawns again.

Farlan scoffs. “You can’t honestly believe all the drivel they print,” Farlan argues, twice the harder for how relaxed the other man is. “All those things about the Jews.”

“They’re the only ones telling the truth about the Jews,” Christofer says, glancing up almost angrily when Farlan scoffs again.

“That’s such nonsense!” Farlan says and laughs. “What, you really believe they go around murdering babies and drinking their blood in some secret–”

“It’s not as if anyone finds that very hard to believe.”

“Honestly!” Farlan huffs and turns back to his book only to look up a couple of seconds later. “Name one person you know that has happened to.”

“It’s not about me naming–”

“That’s right. You can’t, because it’s nonsense,” Farlan makes his case and turns his gaze onto his book again. “You know _Der Stürmer_ ’s anti-Catholic.”

“Why do you care?” Christofer mutters sourly. “You’re the worst Catholic I know. When was the last time you went to mass?”

Farlan falls quiet and stares sullenly at his book, feeling an uneasy tightness in his chest. It’s happening more and more often again, his nerves flaring, and without fail when he sees a newspaper. They make him nervous, he doesn’t know what to believe – doesn’t know if he wants to believe any of it. Not that he should take it out on Christofer, not even when everything about his behaviour feels to Farlan to be a hundred times more annoying than usual.

“I could get behind the financial imbalance,” he whispers in an attempt at reconciliation. “Lord knows there are enough rich Jews around. But the baby murdering business is just ridiculous. I don’t understand how anyone believes something so idiotic.”

On the bed Christofer sighs. “Hopefully some day soon they’ll make it illegal to call honest, hard working Germans ‘idiots’,” he mumbles, putting Farlan’s nose out of joint again.

“You’re not serious.”

“I am serious,” Christofer says, glaring at Farlan from behind the paper, “and you’re an elitist little shit.”

“How am I elitist if I point out that it’s idiotic to believe that groups of people go around the country pulling babies from their cribs just to murder them and drink their blood?” Farlan asks, not caring that he’s raising his voice now. “And besides, I didn’t call anyone _an idiot_. I said believing something as ludicrous as that was _idiotic_. There’s a difference.”

“Off on a technicality,” Christofer says and sneers. “Just like with your military service.”

“As someone who hasn’t done his yet, I don’t think you should be the one to say anything about it,” Farlan says coldly, feeling the hurt in his chest.

“I’ll start mine after the summer.”

The words stop him thinking for something clever and hurtful to add. He stares at Christofer, speechless for a moment, feeling the hurt spreading from his chest down to his stomach that feels suddenly so tight he fears he might throw up.

“Were you even going to tell me that?” he asks Christofer, imagining finding out about it in a letter and thinking suddenly it’s just like the man to do something like that – the coward.

“I knew you’d make a thing of it,” Christofer tells him and sighs, “and I didn’t want to argue.”

“Oh, so the better option would be for you to just leave without saying a word?” Farlan presses, turning around in his chair to face the other man, who finally lowers the newspaper and lays it on his chest.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t ever going to tell you,” Christofer says, keeping his voice annoyingly calm as he picks up _Der Stürmer_ again. “I just knew you’d react like this and I didn’t want that today.”

“What did you want today?” Farlan asks, folding his arms over his chest. “Do I even need to ask?”

Christofer sighs again. “Why do you always have to be such a…” he starts, falling quiet and shaking his head angrily.

“Such a what?”

“Such a woman,” Christofer finishes sourly. “About everything.”

The word evokes another, one he hasn’t heard in a long time but which still makes him shudder with anger. He turns back to his book but the letters don’t catch his eyes and he can’t focus from the resentment clouding his mind.

“You know what?” he finally snaps, bristling when he hears Christofer letting out another heavy sigh. “It’ll be good for us to be apart again. Think of all the things I can accomplish when you’re not here taking up all my time.”

Christofer snorts. “Like what?”

“I can write.”

The man laughs more loudly at that. “We both know you won’t,” he tells Farlan. “When was the last time you wrote anything?”

It makes Farlan even more angry to have to stop to think before he remembers.

“After Christmas,” he says, thinking of the handful of sentences he managed to string together before giving up. Christofer’s laughter feels almost fair then.

“Sure,” he says without looking up from his paper. “I’ll look forward to reading a whole novel from you when I get back.”

“You’re being unfair,” Farlan tells him. “And unkind.”

“ _I’m_ being unfair?” Christofer asks and shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re the one calling me an idiot and saying–”

“I did not call you–”

“And saying the things I read are rubbish,” Christofer finishes, speaking over him and turning back to his newspaper angrily. “Not everyone can afford to go to university. Not everyone–”

“Please, spare me the poverty excuse,” Farlan tells him and sneers. “Your family could afford to send you _and_ your sisters to university and you know it.”

It’s Christofer’s turn to fall quiet, and he does so with a frown so tightly drawn that his eyes look almost black. Farlan knows he could count the seconds to when the man breaks; they’re both terrible at holding angry silences, both too eager to hurt the other at moments like these. Sometimes Farlan can scarcely tell which one of them is the worst.

“You’re just sore because you know you won’t write,” Christofer finally says after a few angry moments. “And anyway, I don’t think you should.”

“Are you saying I can’t write?”

“I’m not saying you _can’t_ ,” the man huffs, lowering the newspaper again and looking Farlan in the eye. “I’m saying you shouldn’t. It’s a waste of time.”

“Oh, so you’re saying I’m so–”

“It’s got nothing to do with you having talent or not,” Christofer hurries to interrupt him. “All I’m saying is that you should think a little further ahead, that’s all. I mean, what sort of book are _you_ going to write? Do you really think anyone’s going to publish it?”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Farlan argues, though he feels the dread twisting his insides; it reminds him that he’s already thought all this himself, more often than once. “They’re still publishing books, aren’t they?”

“Sure,” Christofer agrees, “but not every kind of book. Probably not the kinds of books you’re likely to write.”

Farlan wishes he could argue Christofer’s logic, wishes it so badly he can hardly breathe. But there’s no point in denying there’s truth to his words.

“Anyway,” the man says and sighs. “I think it’s about time you got yourself a real job. Became a real man, started serving your country.”

Farlan feels his sadness die out instantly, giving way to the rage now lit in his chest. He turns to stare at Christofer, too stunned to speak even after the man has the audacity to ask him what he’s so upset about.

“We both know what sort of jobs will be available in the future,” Christofer says, and though Farlan knows he’s not saying it unkindly, he still hates every word of it. “We’re building a new Reich from nothing, Farlan. We don’t need writers for that. We need builders, and fighters. Like the Führer says–”

“Oh, hang the Führer!” Farlan shouts, slamming his book shut on the table. “I don’t care a fig about what he’s said about it – or anything else.”

“You don’t mean that,” Christofer says so gloomily and ominously Farlan wouldn’t be surprised if he jumped up and threatened him until he takes back what he said.

“You know what, as a matter of fact I do,” Farlan tells him sullenly. “I can’t stand your incessant hero worship of him! It’s like you’ve lost all mind of your own and you–”

“I have not lost all–”

“And you know he’s just an extension of your father,” Farlan finishes grimly.

Christofer disappears behind the newspaper again; his anger is palpable in the room, like a current running through the air. It reminds Farlan of the hotel, but he knows better than to say something; not because he’s afraid Christofer might do it again – though it wouldn’t be such a problem if he did. Farlan knows well enough now that most men are like that, and he himself is the exception rather than the rule.

The silence stews in the room until Christofer finally throws aside his copy of _Der Stürmer_ and sits up on the bed. When Farlan sees him folding up the paper, he guesses his next words easily.

“I think I’ll–”

“Yes, I think you’d better leave,” Farlan hurries to say it before the other man gets a chance to. “I have a lot to work on in any case.”

Christofer hesitates on the bed for a few more seconds before pushing to his feet with a loud sigh.

“I really didn’t want to argue today,” he tells Farlan from the door, “but there’s really no choice with you when you’re like this.”

“When I’m like what?” Farlan snaps, his hands clenching into fists. “Too much like a woman for you? Lord knows there isn’t a single part of you that enjoys their company.”

And just like that, they’ve found their way to the real hurt, the true soreness within Farlan – and he suspects them both, though he doesn’t want to think it now. He looks over at Christofer, who’s staring at his shoes, thick brows drawn over his eyes, and he knows himself the challenge in his next question.

“Are you seeing Ilse tonight?”

Christofer glances up at that, and the way he averts his gaze at once tells Farlan all he needs to know.

“Better make sure your father knows,” he mutters sullenly, “since that’s the whole point of it – according to you at least.”

“You know it is,” Christofer tells him, and the apologise in his voice makes Farlan shudder. “You know I wouldn’t waste a second on her if father–”

“Yes,” Farlan interrupts not to hear the end of the sentence. “Mustn’t let him know the real you.”

“You know my parents are not like yours,” the man hisses and the fire seeps back into his voice. “You know if father found out he’d… have me committed somewhere, have me sent to–”

“Yes, I know that, you don’t have to tell me again,” Farlan barks and turns back toward his desk, away from Christofer. “You should ask him for money for flowers. It’ll be more believable.”

The following silence is so deep Farlan can hear Christofer fiddling with the handle of the door.

“I’ll see you again on Thursday,” he mutters before he steps out, leaving Farlan staring at the cover of his book, not really seeing it, not really hearing the door closing behind him.

 

**July 1939**

It’s summer, and the heat makes the air in the car blister and push itself over their noses and mouths despite the rolled down windows. Christofer’s driving, the sleeves of his uniform rolled up to his elbows – Farlan’s not sure he’s taken it off once since he got back even to wash it, and with the smell of sweat coming off him, he can certainly believe it now. The sun has made the hairs on his arms golden against the brown of his tan, and they keep catching Farlan’s eye though he tries to keep things discreet while they’re on the road. Fifty kilometres still to Stralsund.

When he asked his father if he could borrow the car, Farlan was hoping for the same response he received four years ago – but under these circumstances, four years ago might just as well have happened in another life. He watched his parents share a concerned look, forced his voice steady when he answered a good half a dozen of his father’s questions: when would you leave? how long would you stay? did Christofer’s father know? how long was his leave? The man took a full day to consider his answer before granting his permission on the condition they’d both be as careful as they could with the car – and otherwise. Farlan knew what he meant, but decided firmly not to acknowledge it, only promising they wouldn’t drink and drive. No need for him to be candid when everyone else was tiptoeing around the issue like it was a bomb in their house they had to learn to live with.

The car rolls along down the highway, guided by Christofer’s right hand and its leisurely hold on the wheel. They don’t speak; there’s nothing left to say they feel comfortable speaking about even in a moving car. Farlan leans against the hot leather by the window and closes his eyes, trying to focus on the cool breeze on his flushed face. He doesn’t think, doesn’t want to. This weekend there is to be nothing in the world but Rügen; no League of Nations, no speculation, no Czechoslovakia or Danzig or Jewish emigration. Nothing but Rügen, and the two of them on it. No more Ilse either – the only good thing to come out of Christofer’s military service.

“We should go to the beach today,” Christofer says; he speaks differently now, his words are rough and stiffer than they were before he left. “Swim some.”

“In this heat?” Farlan mutters so quietly and lazily it barely carries over the roar of the car. “I’ll get sun stroke.”

“Spoil sport,” Christofer teases, shoving Farlan painfully with his elbow. “Wear a hat, stay in the water.”

“We’ll decide later,” Farlan tells him, leaning his head against the frame of the window. “I can’t think. It’s too hot.”

He can just hear Christofer’s laughter over the engine, but the man doesn’t speak, for which Farlan is grateful. He’s had enough snide comments about how badly suited he is for the army in the letters they’ve exchanged over the year.

They stop for petrol in Stralsund and Farlan gets out to stretch his legs while Christofer fills the tank. Ignoring the exasperated look from Christofer, he lights a smoke and leans onto the hot metal of the car. It doesn’t take long for someone to come over and tell him to stop, not to cause an explosion.

“I told you,” Christofer says from the tank, grinning when he sees Farlan’s unimpressed look, turning around quickly when he hears someone calling out his name.

Farlan looks up and past Christofer at the three men in uniform walking towards them, and it takes him a moment to recognise them: Jürgen, Ernst and little Rudi Lissauer from their days back at school. They’ve all grown and become men, much in the same way Christofer now has. They must be past their military service, Farlan realises – all in the army now. He rolls his eyes when he sits back down in the car.

He listens to the greeting the four exchange outside, fearing a nervousness in Christofer’s voice but hearing none. His words have grown even rougher than they were before, in tune with the other men, their tone and their manner. They catch up on past events, talk about the army so fondly they might as well be talking about their childhood homes; Christofer is the worst of them, and some part of Farlan doesn’t blame him for it. He lets his thoughts drift onto the long weekend ahead, until the conversation outside moves onto his presence and draws his attention.

“Was that Hausfrau you’re driving with?”

Without missing a beat, Christofer starts his explanation, like he’s had it ready from the moment they started driving back in Berlin.

“Father needs his dad for some project for the party,” the man drawls; Farlan catches him leaning onto the car lazily. “He asked me to take Hausfrau out to Rügen, butter him up a bit.”

“Better lock your door for the night, is all I’m saying,” one of them mutters loudly enough for Farlan to hear and they all laugh.

“I reckon these could handle that situation,” Christofer says, pointing at his biceps, “but I don’t think father would be happy if I beat him to a pulp.”

Farlan listens as they all laugh again and watches them through the sidemirror. He wonders what sort of things Christofer talks about with his friends in the army, if he himself is the source of a score of mean and degrading jokes. “I knew this boy back at school… we used to call him Hausfrau. Disgusting little queer he was.”

“Ditch him,” Jürgen suggests, pressing it when he hears Christofer hesitate. “Come on! You’ll both have a better time if you spend the weekend apart. We’ll go drinking, exchange war stories. What do you say?”

“Wish I could,” Christofer says – and he sounds it. “Really, I’d like nothing better. But I have to do this – or else my old man will skin me alive.”

They say their goodbyes after that, promising to stay in touch and meet up once they’re all back in Berlin. Farlan stares ahead through the windshield, doesn’t say anything when Christofer finally gets back onto the driver’s seat and they drive away.

“What were the chances?” Christofer says; joyfully, like he’s happy to have run into those people.

 It takes Farlan a moment to realise that to the other man they’re just friends, that he has no issue with them, even after everything. He doesn’t speak, barely grunts out a reply, not caring if Christofer hears it or not. Though he tries, Farlan can’t improve his own mood for the duration of the drive, and when they finally reach the house, he knows he’s as sour as he’s ever been in his life. Christofer barely seems to notice, or perhaps is doing his best to ignore it, when he carries the bags in and sets them down onto the sheet-covered sofa, stretching his arms above his head and yawning.

“Do you want to unpack before we go to the beach?” he asks Farlan who’s already busy pouring himself a stiff drink.

“I told you,” he says quietly, “I don’t want to go to the beach today. It’s too hot. But you ought to go, if you want.”

Farlan can hear Christofer’s annoyance in the deep sigh he lets out when he sits down on the sofa next to the suitcases, sees it in his tightly crossed hands when he turns around and takes a seat in an armchair across the room. They don’t speak for several minutes. Farlan takes large sips out of his glass, hating the taste of the liquor but hoping it will get him drunk before dinnertime.

“Why do you have to be like this?” Christofer finally asks, making Farlan bristle.

“Like what?” he asks back. “What am I being like?”

“ _This_ ,” Christofer says, pointing at Farlan with both hands. “Why can’t you ever just… let things go and enjoy yourself?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Farlan replies. “I didn’t realise I was supposed to enjoy listening to you disparaging me with–”

“What was I supposed to say?” Christofer hisses, leaning forward angrily in his seat. “Was I supposed to tell them we were on our way to a quick lover’s escape in the country? What did you want me to say?”

Farlan falls quiet at that, all the mean little retorts he thought up dying on his lips. His anger and his reason battle for a while until he sighs, rubbing his forehead with his thumb.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, unable to look Christofer in the eye; thankfully, the man doesn’t need him to. “Let’s just… get everything ready here and go to the beach in the evening. Once it’s cooled down a bit.”

“Fine,” Christofer agrees, leaning back against the backrest of the sofa for a few seconds before getting suddenly to his feet and pouring himself a drink. He squats down in front of Farlan’s chair, placing one of his calloused hands on his thigh and whispering, “I don’t want to fight.”

“I know,” Farlan replies, exhaling heavily and taking a sip of his drink. “I don’t want that either.”

The months of separation seem to be weighing down the air in the room. Suddenly they’re like strangers, but still so far from it; bound to one another, but tied by no promise; worlds apart, skin against skin. Right then Farlan wonders – like he’s done so many times during their time apart – if they’re not too different after all, too foreign to each other now for… whatever this is. This make-believe. This futureless excuse for something neither one of them can hope to hold on to.

“Come,” Christofer says, standing up and holding out his hand for Farlan.

“Do you want to show me something?” he asks, smiling weakly when Christofer does, and making a decision: if a past is all they have now, let them both cling to it. If only for this weekend. If only for tonight.

They unpack their bags in Farlan’s parents’ room and change fresh linens into the bed before pulling the sheets off the furniture. Farlan cooks them a modest dinner of fish and potatoes; something about the smell of butter frying on a pan makes the house feel like home. Afterward they sit on the sofa, drinking cognac and listening to music, until Christofer pulls Farlan onto his feet again.

They go to the beach at sunset, glad to find it empty of most of the horde they glimpsed through the windows of the car earlier. They swim in the sea; the water is calm and cool, like a bath for them to wash the day’s heat off their skin with. They race each other along the waterline, raising the sea up to meet their laughing faces, gripping each other’s arms and shoulders and wrestling until Farlan grows tired and starts fearing an asthma attack.

They’re still laughing when they get back to the house, fingers entwining into wet hair as soon as they’ve closed the door, impatient hands and lips racing each other when they stumble into the bedroom, falling onto the clean, soft linens, naked and breathless. There’s nothing between them now, no time nor distance. They know each other now, know every age and version of each other, every secret yearning, every lie they’ve ever told one to the other, and forgive them all. Farlan relaxes under Christofer’s touch, stays calm when the man, slick with petroleum jelly, pushes inside. From how fast their pleasures peak, you wouldn’t know they’ve been doing this for years. They laugh about it after, lying in each other’s arms and though Farlan craves a cigarette, he doesn’t light one. Instead he breathes in Christofer’s breath, falling asleep to its steady whispering rhythm.

He wakes first, puts on his mother’s dressing gown and slippers before going over all the windows to make sure all the curtains are drawn. He sets the table in the kitchen ready for breakfast like he knows his mother must do every morning, and sits down with a cup of coffee and an old copy of _Das Blatt der Hausfrau_ ; he doesn’t want to even see a newspaper until they’re back in Berlin. He doesn’t rush to get Christofer awake, knowing he hasn’t had the chance to sleep in lately. Instead Farlan enjoys the quiet moment; the delicate porcelain cup in his hand, the rustle of the thin pages of the magazine, the few strips of dim morning light that manage to push past the curtains. It’s going to be a rainy day, and Farlan is glad; no reason to leave the house today. No reason to be where other people are.

When Christofer finally wakes, Farlan is done with his magazine and has started frying the French toast he brought for their breakfast. He smiles a good morning to the man and tells him to get himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove and to sit down to wait for breakfast. When he carries it to the table, he’s annoyed to see Christofer holding an old tea mug rather than the small coffee cup he laid out earlier.

“I already used it last night,” Christofer says when Farlan points it out. “I thought it’d be less dishes for you.”

“Because of course the dishes are my job,” Farlan replies a little sullenly, sitting down and placing the French toast on the table with apricot jam.

“Well,” Christofer starts, grinning and snatching a slice of bread onto his plate, “you are the Hausfrau.”

Farlan glares at him for a few seconds but says nothing, not wanting to start an argument. He can tell Christofer finds it exasperating enough that Farlan didn’t laugh at his joke.

“Well you’re the one who’s serving breakfast,” he argues, spreading jam onto his toast. “I mean, look at you! You’re wearing women’s clothes, for fuck’s sake.”

“Don’t swear,” Farlan tells him quietly, and he doesn’t understand why it bothered him so much; like Christofer had brought the army into the room all of a sudden. “And if I don’t serve breakfast, what then? Am I supposed to believe _you_ were going to do it?”

Christofer laughs, his burst of annoyance gone as fast as it appeared. “You know, I never understood why you got so upset about that.”

“I know you didn’t,” Farlan tells him, hearing the coolness in his own tone. “I can tell you still don’t understand it.”

“It’s just…” the man starts, pausing to sigh heavily. “It’s what you’re like. You like baking gugelhupfs and you like setting the table and making things pretty. You take at least twice as long fixing your hair every morning than a normal man does. I don’t understand why–”

“Well, first of all if you could stop implying that I’m somehow abnormal I would really–”

“But you are!” Christofer argues, dropping his French toast on his plate and leaving it there. “You’re unlike any other man I’ve ever met in my life! Why is it so terrible that I acknowledge it every once in a while?”

Farlan falls quiet, trying to think of a stinging remark but finding nothing. Instead he reaches for the breakfast plate and starts spreading jam onto his slices of bread, while Christofer sighs again.

“I like you as you are,” he says, taking a gulp out of his cup. “Really, I wish I could marry you. I couldn’t hope for a better wife.”

“I _really_ wish you’d stop joking about–”

“But I’m not joking,” Christofer interrupts him, and looking into his eyes, Farlan can tell he means it. “I’m not joking, Farlan. I’d marry you tomorrow if I could.”

They stare at each other across the table and Farlan can feel his heart hammering in his chest. He knows it’s as close to a proposal he’ll ever get, but his whole mind is screaming to make it disappear, to turn back time and make those words unspoken. There’s more pain in them than he can bear – more sadness in Christofer’s eyes than he could soothe if he had a hundred years to do it.

“It’s going to rain today,” Farlan finally says, breaking the silence and turning to his breakfast. “We could go to the pavilion for tea, if you’d like.”

The silence that follows feels heavier than the last.

“Sure,” Christofer replies; Farlan keeps his eyes on his plate and pretends not to hear the way his voice breaks. “Whatever you want.”

 

When they leave after lunch, the rain is already pouring and by the time they get to the pavilion their socks are soaked through with it. Christofer buys them a slice of cake each with a pot of tea. They barely speak for the hour they spend there in the half-empty café. Farlan keeps staring at the grey curtain of the rain as it falls over the iron-clad waves, thinking, though he tries not to, all the way back to when he first met Christofer all those years ago in Nuremberg. There’s no bronze in the man’s hair in this light, the grey dulls the green in his eyes to a dusty brown, but right then everything else seems to him the same: the strong arms, the freckles on his nose, the way his skin is tanned by the sun. He doesn’t smile now, and Farlan misses the smugness of his grins, the playfulness always pressed into the corners of his mouth, how foreign apologies were to him back then. It feels so pure, all of it does: the wretched days in the Jugend, the way they’d pass each other in the hallways of the school as if they were strangers. The trip they planned. The afternoons they spent reading The Iliad in the garden.

There’s nothing much left now that hasn’t been muddied, somehow, by all the things that came since.

When the day is done, they sit in the living room, listening to the sound of the record player as it mixes with the drumming of the rain against the windows. Farlan reads, Christofer plays cards on the floor in his shirt sleeves, legs crossed and head bent until he grows bored. Farlan can tell when he does, from the change in his posture and the way he exhales long and hard – he’s seen it countless times before. He doesn’t move his eyes off the page until Christofer’s standing in front of him, holding out his hand. Farlan takes it; doesn’t waste a moment to take Christofer’s hand.

It’s not the first time they’ve danced together, but to Farlan it feels like it is. With the curtains drawn and the lights switched off, the room is so dark he can barely see Christofer’s face in the dim light when he pulls him close, body bigger and firmer than Farlan remembered. Their steps start faltering soon, growing smaller and smaller, until they’re barely moving anymore. Farlan presses his cheek against Christofer’s neck and exhales wearily, leaning into the embrace he won’t let himself think of as another goodbye.

“Patroclus?” Christofer whispers into Farlan hair hoarsely; he needs to breathe before he can reply.

“What is it, Achilles?”

Christofer’s voice sounds calm when he replies, but the tight grip of his hand betrays him.

“Do you suppose in a year’s time we’ll finally be going home?”

Farlan hums out a quiet laugh. “Sure,” he says. “Next year. The walls of Troy, again.”


	6. Chapter 6

**April, 1954**

He stares at the main building of the university through the wrought-iron gates, and waits for something within him to break, remembering meeting the man here after a long day at the party office, constantly strangled by a tie, moving papers here and there, feeling useless and uninspired. He must’ve taken it out on the other man, though he doesn’t remember now if he did and how he might have. Farlan himself was impossible sometimes – _that_ Christofer remembers. Always picking a fight. Always a clumsy turn of words away from an argument.

He leaves, feet not dragging even now. Born a soldier; that’s what father always said. His little soldier – a comrade in a house otherwise filled with women. We have to keep them in line, he said. Have to make sure they don’t get confused about the natural order of things just because the men of the house stand outnumbered. And then, after a few drinks, he’d start talking about the baby brothers who died in their cribs back when Germans were being starved to death.

Old fool. Good thing about the cyanide capsule – though Christofer wouldn’t have minded seeing him hang either.

He knows the way to the café. He went by earlier but left without going in. Too many people; he doesn’t know why that makes him nervous these days. Like Farlan was, back in the day. Not one for crowds. Could be the result of the prison camp, where everything was crowded and dirty and noisy, where the last thing you wanted to be was the centre of attention. God, he used to love that when he was a boy. In the middle of a crowd, doing something to be admired for, and the more people noticed, the better. How he ever enjoyed a second in Farlan’s home is still beyond him. It was always so quiet, like a museum or a library. The years have made it quieter still; less like a library, and more like a tomb.

Christofer went to the house his first day back in Berlin. The visit was short, and confirmed most of what he had feared. The war had turned Herr Kirche into a man old beyond his years – and no wonder, having lost both his wife and his son. Christofer tried not to think of their last meeting when he stepped inside; he’d come by, asking for Farlan of course, and Herr Kirche had told him his son had received a letter from the Gestapo and run away. He never said he blamed Christofer for it, but it was written all over his face. Later that same day it was written onto Christofer’s knuckles when he beat the confession out of his own father. There’s something about that look of surprise the man had that still bothers Christofer today; it seemed and still seems like an insult, that his father would be surprised he learned those lessons he fought so hard to teach him.

Herr Kirche had learned something about resentment during the war years, it turned out; he offered Christofer nothing in the form of refreshment, said nothing if not specifically asked, gave no indication that Christofer had any right to the pieces of information he did give out. He was curt and formal, like being interviewed by a government official. The only time he showed any emotion was when Christofer asked about the house on Rügen.

“I sold it,” the man said, assuming the same monotone he had kept up throughout the conversation. Christofer waited for an explanation but got none, and didn’t have the guts to ask why.

Herr Kirche wrote the café’s address down onto a small slip of paper, said the man who ran it was called Ackerman, and that he’d have the answers he himself did not. Christofer was grateful for it then, feeling Herr Kirche’s gaze as an unease in the pit of his stomach and deciding he’d be more comfortable asking questions from a stranger. When he took a glimpse through the café window, however, Christofer quickly changed his mind. He feels the nerves even now when he finally steps through the door, though the crowd of customers has diminished to a mere handful. Christofer glances at the three old men sitting in a corner table, and shudders at the sight of their side curls and the wide brimmed black hats on their heads.

He’s not supposed to think it. He knows he’s not supposed to. And yet, he does; the sight raises acid to the back of his throat.

He walks up to the counter, peering quickly through the glass of the display at the array of cakes and other baked goods. He sees the gugelhupf by the register and thinks about getting a slice, but the lurch in his stomach says he shouldn’t bother wasting a good piece of cake.

“Excuse me,” he says to the short, dark haired man behind the counter; his voice sounds gruff and he clears his throat. “I was looking for a Herr Ackerman. I wondered if–”

“That’s me,” the man replies curtly, frowning and wiping his hands on a towel. “What’s this about?”

Christofer extends his hand, remembering the manners that sat badly with him to begin with and which the army nearly eradicated for good.

“My name is Christofer Hahn,” he introduces himself to the man who takes his hand, looking even more suspicious than he did before. “I was told by Herr Eugen Kirche that I could talk with you about…”

His words trail off when a look of recognition fills the man’s feature – of recognition, and of pity. He gives Christofer a curt nod and folds up the towel onto the counter.

“Would you like something?” he asks, nodding toward the display. “On the house.”

“No, I…” Christofer says, glancing again at the gugelhupf and shaking his head. “No, thank you. I couldn’t.”

“There’s some soup if you–”

“No,” Christofer refuses again, shaking his head. “Thank you. But I’m not hungry.”

The man nods again, his frown still as tightly drawn as ever.

“You should take a seat,” he says, gesturing toward the small round tables around the room. “I’ll sit down with you in a minute, tell you what you need to know.”

Christofer nods and retreats to a table near the window. He feels an uneasy tightness in his throat when he watches Herr Ackerman carry another pot of tea to the corner table. He stops to clear out a few plates, and answers the old men’s questions with the same foreign yet familiar language they use, making them all cackle into their beards. Christofer feels shudders on the whole of his body.

His eyes drift quickly past the group of men to the small table they’re sitting next to. Pressed against the wall, half hidden in shadows, it’s no wonder he didn’t notice it before. As soon as he spots the photograph in its silver frame by one of the candles, he turns away, mind racing. When Herr Ackerman finally joins him a few minutes later, Christofer stares at him and can’t help but wonder. He isn’t someone Farlan would’ve liked. Not the Farlan he knew, anyway – but then, war changes many things.

They sit there quiet for a while, like neither one of them knows what to say. Christofer has crossed his hands on the table and his grip keeps tightening and loosening according to how aware he is of it. Finally Herr Ackerman clears his throat and sighs.

“I suppose Eugen told you how I knew Farlan,” he says, and for a few seconds Christofer fears he’s going to continue, say it’s not the whole story, tell him something he doesn’t want to hear.

“He said you met on the train,” he hurries to say, “when he left Berlin.”

The man nods slowly. “It was lucky I did,” he says. “I’d like to think lucky for both of us.”

Christofer nods along though he’s not sure what the man means, and he’s not sure he wants to. Another silence falls between them and Christofer can hear the Jews muttering under their breaths in the corner.

“You know Farlan’s father had a plan put together,” Herr Ackerman says, “for if something happened. Some friend of his owned an apartment in Dresden. We stayed there through the war. Until the bombing.”

Christofer feels his blood run cold in his body. His voice is barely more than a whisper when he asks, “Is that how he–”

“No,” the man interrupts him, shaking his head. “No, we got out in time. We had help from… someone I knew.”

Christofer nods again and tries to read into the man’s words. No one on their side would’ve known about the bombing – and no one insignificant on the other side would’ve known either. He looks at the man again and wonders if the old ways of the resistance run so deep he doesn’t want to reveal his source to the enemy even now.

“We stayed in hiding for a while,” Herr Ackerman continues, “but it wasn’t safe, in the end, and we had to leave. We tried to make it across the border, to France.”

 _Tried to._ The words make Christofer’s stomach twist and his hands clench on the table. He imagines it: a long march, like the retreat from Leningrad, constant hunger and cold and the smell of rot and unwashed bodies. People yelling, keep marching keep marching. Death at your heels, Stalin’s organ singing day and night so you could only fall asleep out of sheer exhaustion.

“Herr Kirche said he asked you not to tell him how it happened,” Christofer says, feeling the strain in his throat when he speaks, “but if you don’t mind, I’d like to know.”

All day he’s been telling himself he can face it, whatever it is. He’s seen the worst: rotting corpses with empty sockets staring up at the sky from faces twisted from pain; piles of hacked off limbs outside sick tents; a fellow soldier’s head popping open like an overripe melon. It’s what he’s told himself: whatever it is, he’s seen it or worse already.

Herr Ackerman turns his eyes away when he speaks. “The good news is he didn’t suffer,” he says, voice low and quiet, like he’s trying to keep the hurt at bay. “I was away when it happened, I only saw him when I got back. It was a shot to the head, just the one. So you know it was over quickly.”

Christofer nods mutely. A shot to the head. It’s almost gentle, considering the alternatives. His breathing quickens and he swallows hard.

“We’d taken in a girl a couple years earlier,” the man continues. “Isabel. She was with him when it happened.”

He barely hears the man now. His ears are ringing, and the shudders running down his body make him want to wrap his arms around himself. The Jews in the corner table laugh at something, and Christofer casts a glare their way. Fucking savages.

“We didn’t have time to bury them, so I left them lying under a tree,” Herr Ackerman says softly. “It was the best I could do. It still bothers me that I couldn’t–”

“Who was it?” Christofer asks past the bile in his throat. “Who do you think did it?”

The man stares at Christofer for a few seconds and shrugs. “I can’t be sure,” he says. “There were some soldiers in the area. Could’ve been deserters. Could’ve been a group of refugees – though nothing much was taken from our supplies, which I guess is a sign of something.”

Soldiers. Christofer pictures them in his mind, their uniforms down to the finest detail. He should know, shouldn’t he? What they must have looked like, acted like. The things they must’ve said. The kind of gun they would’ve used. He can picture the scene so well it might as well have been him pulling the trigger.

“Well that’s…” he starts, pausing to clear his throat when a surge of nausea threatens to cut off the words he can barely hear himself saying. “That’s really all I came here to ask. I really just… wanted to know how it happened.”

“I’m glad you had someone who could tell you,” Herr Ackerman says. “It not good to be left wondering.”

“Yes,” Christofer agrees, though a few seconds later he’s no longer sure if he actually said the word out loud or just thought it.

Suddenly Herr Ackerman stands up and walks away. For a moment Christofer thinks he’s going to tend to the Jews again, but instead he marches to the little side table and pulls a thick wad of paper out of a wooden box. He returns to the table and when he places the papers down on it, Christofer can see they’re a score of envelopes tied to a bundle with a length of coarse string.

“He wrote to you throughout the war,” Herr Ackerman explains quietly. “Never sent any of them, of course. But I think it helped him. He wasn’t always doing so well. Nerves, you know.”

Christofer picks up the stack of letters and feels something in the very core of him shatter and break, some wall he’s built decades ago to keep things like this at bay: sentimentality, loss and grief; weakness. He stares at the paper that’s grown yellow with age and dirt. 1939. The house on Rügen, swimming, laughing. Dancing. God, how he loved him then, how he loved that strand of hair always falling over his eyes in the morning, those smiles he had to work so hard to earn when anyone else would’ve given them up at once. Those delicate hands and round, smooth shoulders. God, how he loved everything about him. How impossible he was, how quick-tempered and sullen. How sometimes Christofer felt like he alone could find a way through all that, right into his tender heart.

He tries to hold back the tears when they spill over, tries to wipe them away swiftly but they just keep coming. He tries to hold his breath and control it, tries to ease it by unbuttoning the top of his shirt, but it sticks to his throat all the same and breaks on its way out into loud sobs – but the embarrassment is too secondary for him to be concerned about it now. He can just make out the shape of Herr Ackerman across the table; the man lets him cry, doesn’t try to comfort him, for which he is grateful. In those images of happiness, of Rügen and Farlan laying the table for breakfast, the man now wears a bullet hole between his eyes, and Christofer can’t make it disappear.

He doesn’t know how long he keeps crying, but when he finally calms down, the Jews are gone from the corner table. Someone new is standing behind the counter – a boy who looks too young to be working yet. Herr Ackerman is still in his seat, frowning somehow sympathetically and standing up when Christofer scrambles to his feet.

“I’m sorry,” he says to the man, wiping the remains of the tears off his cheeks. “I don’t… I think I should go.”

Herr Ackerman merely nods, extending his hand which Christofer takes after a moment’s hesitation. Neither one of them says anything more and Christofer walks out, blinking in the sunlight, feeling like he’s stepped back into time. He makes his way back to his hotel in a daze and as soon as he’s drawn the curtains over the window, the world becomes unreal again.

He sits down heavily onto the unmade bed, holding the letters as gently as he would a bird with a broken wing. They rest on the palms of his hands, sealed and addressed to him – all but one, a folded up piece of paper, crumpled and stained. Christofer slips it out from the bundle and unfolds it with shaking hands. He recognises the handwriting, though it’s unsteady and the words written with a dull pencil years ago have almost faded.

_Christofer. I’m tired_

He lifts the letter close to his face in the dark room, eyes searching for anything else written on the page, though he knows there’s nothing. Christofer glances at the stack of letters lying on the bed still unopened; every one of them a piece of his ghost, speaking through time.

With a heavy sigh, Christofer picks up the bundle and turns it over, back to 1939; back to him.


End file.
